


Roll and fall in green

by Dontthrowsticksatme (dontthrowsticksatme)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Canon Rewrite, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Hogwarts Era, Idiots in Love, M/M, Musician Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, POV Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson is a Good Friend, Partners in Potions Class (Harry Potter), Pining Draco Malfoy, Quidditch, Romance, Secret Crush, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Smart Draco Malfoy, Triwizard Tournament, Work In Progress, Yule Ball (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 118,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26178511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontthrowsticksatme/pseuds/Dontthrowsticksatme
Summary: Draco Malfoy starts Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with high hopes. Then he discovers he's in the same year as the biggest celebrity in the country: The Boy Who Lived.This is basically the Harry Potter series from Draco's point of view, with a Drarry-twist. It is also my other fic Crimson and Clover from Draco's point of view.I try to post a chapter around the first of each month (no promises though).
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 51
Kudos: 80





	1. The new celebrity

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't finished this story yet, so there's a chance I will change things later.  
> Also, if you see Draco speak French and you're like whaaat me no parler francais -- no you worry, it's mostly profanity, sometimes nicknames and unnecessary to the plot  
> You can ignore it.  
> (Or you can pick up the highly respectable skill of swearing in french)  
>   
> And I want to thank my wonderful beta reader [ Annie <3 ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chonkytheslur) without whom this whole fic would be a lot less readable, and who is also my major motivator and a great person to bounce ideas around with :)) thanks a bunch babe <3

‘You are not leaving me here,’ Draco demanded, stomping his foot on the stuffy carpet of Madam Malkin's shop.

His father didn’t even look up from their shopping list. ‘You do as you are told.’

‘Your father will be right next-door, buying your books,’ Mother said as she kissed Draco on his hair, ‘and I am up the street looking at wands for you. We will be back before you know it.’

‘And then we will look at racing brooms,’ Draco ordered. 

‘Then we will get ice cream,’ his mother promised.

‘And then Father will buy me a racing broom,’ Draco insisted.

His father shared a smirk with his mother. Draco hated it when they did that.

‘All the kids at Hogwarts will have a racing broom,’ he loudly said. ‘If I arrive without one everyone will assume you are poor.’

‘Perhaps your mother and I,’ Father drawled, ‘will enjoy our next fifteen minutes of peace and quiet so much, we might – ah – hesitate to come back.’

Mother slapped his arm, giggling. Draco scowled at the both of them.

The bell of Madam Malkin’s shop clanged on their way out. Draco felt like throwing something after them, but at that moment one of the shop assistants took him to the back of the shop, where he was put on a footstool. She wanted to slip a robe over his head, but Draco quickly stopped her.

‘Excuse me, can I see a selection of fabrics before you force the cheapest stuff on me?’

The assistant took a second to process. Then she looked at him like he was just any little boy, saying, ‘There is no choice in fabric for the Hogwarts school uniform, young man.’

Draco could hardly believe it. He let the fabric go through his fingers. ‘This is terrible quality.’

The assistant forcefully put the robes over his head. Draco was fuming. ‘My mother will hear about this! She would not appreciate me walking around with second-rate clothing.’

‘Stay still,’ said the assistant.

Draco's mood only worsened when he noticed how depressingly slowly the witch pinned the hem of his robes.

The bell clanged again. Looking over his shoulder, Draco spotted a boy with messy, black hair, oversized Muggle clothing and thick, round glasses stepping through the door. Madam Malkin took him to the back of the shop, where he was stood on a footstool next to Draco. He too got a robe slipped over his head without any questions asked, and Madam Malkin began to pin it to the right length while the boy stared with wide eyes.

‘Hullo,’ Draco said, ‘Hogwarts too?’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ His voice sounded like he just got out of bed; slow and a little croaky.

‘What is?’ Draco snarled.

‘All of this. I didn’t know I was a wizard, did you?’

Draco smirked. ‘Yes, all my life. My father–…’

‘All your life? That’s brilliant.’

Draco forgot what he was going to say.

The boy looked around at the street outside, then back at Madam Malkin, who smiled at him. The boy beamed back like he was half in love with her already.

‘Yes… I suppose,’ Draco drawled.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to see all this for the first time. He never saw it as something extraordinary, but of course it was… to a Muggleborn.

‘Your parents, they are… our kind?’ he verified.

The boy’s piercing green eyes fixated on Draco with frightening intent. ‘They were a witch and a wizard, if that’s what you mean.’

‘They were?’

‘Where are yours?’ The boy asked. ‘Are they wizards too?’

‘Obviously!’ Draco scoffed. ‘I am Draco Malfoy.’

The boy’s mouth fell open.

His silence made Draco feel proud and he straightened his back. ‘My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,’ Draco answered the question. ‘Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t– ’

To Draco’s horror, the boy laughed. ‘Racing brooms?’ he said, still grinning. ‘What are those?’

‘You know nothing?’ Draco snarled in disbelief.

The boy looked him up and down, in the same way Mother glared at people who got into her personal space. Draco thought he seemed pretty sure of himself for someone dressed like _that_ , and for someone who apparently knew absolutely nothing about anything.

‘It’s for Quidditch,’ he drawled.

‘What’s – ’

‘It's our sport,’ Draco interrupted, growing bored with the boy’s predictability. ‘Wizard sport, you see. Everyone knows about Quidditch. It’s played up in the air on broomsticks. Well, I’m not going to explain all the rules to you right now, forget it.’

‘No, don’t tire yourself,’ said the boy dryly. ‘Have you got a flying broomstick?’

‘Of course I have,’ Draco sneered. ‘But it’s horribly last season. I want the comet 290. It’s the best on the market right now. Not counting the Nimbusses of course, or the Firebolts.’

All of a sudden, the boy’s face clouded over like there was a heavy burden on his shoulder.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ scoffed Draco.

The boy looked out the window. ‘There’s so much I don’t know yet…’

Draco snorted. ‘I’ll say.’

He didn’t understand how someone could look so downcast for having an entire world to discover.

‘I can easily tell you everything, if you want,’ Draco proudly offered. After all, he knew everything about everything. Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. A huge man was standing outside the front window, grinning and pointing at two large ice-creams. ‘Look at that man!’

‘That’s Hagrid,’ said the boy, beaming again. ‘He works at Hogwarts.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard of him,’ Draco quickly replied. ‘He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?’

‘He’s the gamekeeper,’ said the boy, looking oddly proud.

As if Draco didn’t know Hagrid was the Gamekeeper. Draco knew all about Hogwarts and who worked there, because Pansy told him everything her brother and sister ever mentioned about it. Hagrid never came out of these stories as a responsible figure, though.

‘Yes, exactly,’ said Draco. ‘I heard he’s sort of savage – lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do Magic and ends up setting fire to his bed.’

The boy’s mouth fell open and he burst out laughing. He seriously burst out laughing – at something Draco said so offhandedly.

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ the boy said.

‘That’s you done, my dear,’ Madam Malkin interrupted, and the kid hopped down from the footstool.

Draco felt disappointed to see him go so soon. ‘Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,’ he said.

The boy beamed at him. ‘Yes! See you at Hogwarts!’

Draco stared after him, left with dozens of questions. How did the kid end up stuck with a figure like Hagrid? Wasn’t there anyone else in his life to take care of him? Anyone at all? Judging from the dilapidated rags the boy was wearing, Draco was afraid he knew the answer to that question.

He watched the kid join Hagrid, cheerfully licking the ice cream. Draco’d never seen anyone so content with so incredibly little.

A pin pricked the skin of his wrist and he almost slapped the assistant. ‘Ouch, be careful! How are you still not done?’

‘Your mother left detailed instructions,’ the assistant muttered darkly.

Draco had to clench his teeth to control his frustration. He was so bored.

. . .

At last, the day arrived that Draco went to Hogwarts. Looking back at the solid wall he, his parents and their two House Elves just ran straight through, he suddenly wondered about the strange boy he met at the back of Madam Malkin’s shop. Would the idiot Gamekeeper take him to the station too? Would he know how to get on the platform? Draco searched around if he saw him anywhere, but it was too crowded.

‘Do not dream, Draconius.’

‘Yes, mother.’

They had agreed to meet Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle with their parents. Father was craning to look over the crowd. Mother didn’t bother; the top of her head didn’t even reach Father’s shoulders, even though she wore her expensive Witchian Lou Booting-heels.

‘Late as usual,’ sighed Draco’s father when he finally saw the Crabbes and Goyles coming.

Draco couldn’t remember a time he didn’t know the two boys. Him, Vincent, Gregory and Pansy grew up like brothers and sisters. In the hoard of unfamiliar faces, Draco felt comforted by the fact that his family was with him. He wasn’t alone.

His father lay a hand on Draco’s head, his mother kissed his cheek. Draco was glad they didn’t get emotional, although he could see how difficult it was for them to keep it together. Draco forced himself not to think about the fact that he wouldn’t see his parents again for months. They would write, he reminded himself. They wouldn’t forget him – probably; they could get pretty forgetful…

Pansy’s sister had made Hogwarts sound incredible, and so had _Hogwarts: A History_. Time would fly, Draco promised himself. This was alright. Him stepping on that train, and leaving his parents behind for months on end would be alright. 

When Draco boarded the train, so did Crabbe and Goyle. The three of them stuck together like glue in the jostling crowd. Draco’s heart pounded in his chest; some of the students were almost twice as tall as Draco. Some of them were twice as broad too.

At last, they found a free compartment. Vincent, being the tallest and strongest, put all of their luggage in the luggage rack. Then, on Draco’s command, he took one of their trunks out again, to get Exploding Snap.

After two games, Draco couldn’t sit still anymore. There was an entire train full of potential friends, every one of them probably more interesting than Vincent and Gregory.

‘We need to mingle,’ he told his friends. ‘Father said to start making acquaintances right away.’ 

Slamming open their compartment door, he started walking. Vincent and Gregory followed.

Where was that kid he saw at the back of Madam Malkin’s shop? Did he even make it aboard? Draco glanced through the compartment windows, wondering if Vincent and Gregory would like the boy. Maybe Draco could convince them to allow him to join them, if they liked him too. That way, Draco would have someone to talk to; there was so much more to talk about with someone who hadn’t known the Malfoys and their entire world since birth. 

When he peeked through the umpteenth window, Draco’s heart skipped a beat, as he finally noticed the messy hair and broken glasses he’d been searching for.

‘Ha!’

Crabbe and Goyle walked into him when he stopped dead in his tracks. Draco fell over, but Gregory caught him.

‘Warn first,’ he grumbled.

‘Pay attention,’ snapped Draco, sliding open the compartment door.

The boy looked up and positively beamed at the sight of them. ‘Hey, Draco,’ he said, with that slow, hoarse voice, ‘I didn’t see you at the platform.’

The fact that the boy had remembered Draco's name would have made his day, had he not seen the company the boy was in.

A tall, thin, and gangling boy, with freckles, a long nose, and big hands and feet sat across from Draco’s new friend. He had flaming red hair.

No doubt a Weasley. Father had told Draco all about that blood traitor family.

‘Oh, this is Ron,’ the boy told Draco.

‘No need to introduce me. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles and more children than they can afford.’

Weasley looked daggers at Draco. Draco and his friends returned the look.

The boy, however, did not glare; he sniggered and turned to Weasley. ‘How many children do you have then, Ron?’

Draco remembered his father’s advice about making friends with the right people. The friends made at Hogwarts set you up for life. It was one thing for the boy to walk around with the Gamekeeper if he didn’t have any choice, but to consciously befriend a Weasley on day one was not a wise move.

Draco wanted to explain this, but then the boy said, ‘Did you bring bodyguards, Dra?’

‘Dra!’ scoffed Draco. No one had ever shortened his name before. If anything, they lengthened it, to add some weight. Dra! ‘How dare you? For you I’m Mister Malfoy.’

Draco poised himself like his father always did, shoulders back, chin up and a hand pressed to his chest.

The boy almost fell out of his chair from laughing. Draco didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing, so he kept his face straight.

‘Here, Mister Malfoy –’ his new friend grabbed something ‘– take a choc- OUCH!’

A live animal was hanging off the boy’s finger. Draco backed away, startled.

Weasley leaped over to take the rat, his face as red as his hair. ‘You just bit Harry Potter, you stupid animal! That’ll rub off on me!’

Draco’s heart seemed to stop beating for at least a few seconds.

Did that Weasley just say… Harry Potter? Was this ragged, emaciated kid… the saviour of the wizarding world? The Boy Who Lived? The powerful baby who beat the Dark Lord?

‘Harry Potter?’ Draco heard himself utter.

That couldn’t be right... Did Draco’s charity project really just turn out to be the most important person in the country?

The boy scratched his head while sucking at the wound on his finger, allowing everyone to catch a glance of his forehead. A white scar stood out, bright as day, against his skin. It was shaped like a lightning bolt, just as the books described. There were tiny lines meandering from it, just like a real lightning bolt had. It looked amazing – and… painful. Draco wondered how much it had hurt when he got it and if it still hurt now.

The boy – or Harry Potter, apparently – checked out his bleeding finger. This lousy Weasley had hurt Harry J. Potter even before they’d reached the school. It was certainly unsuitable company for the Boy Who Lived, Draco reckoned. It must have been destined for the Malfoy heir and Harry Potter to have met at that shop, Draco thought. They were bound to connect. Potter needed saving.

So Draco pulled himself together, for Potter’s sake.

‘These are my friends Crabbe and Goyle, to answer your question. And you might want to consider changing compartments; you’ll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.’

Draco Malfoy held out his hand to shake Harry Potter's.

Harry stared at him as if there was something weird on Draco's face. Then he seized his hand to put a chocolate frog in it.

‘You’re very rude, aren’t you?’ Harry Potter told him.

Draco felt his face heat up. It took a moment to realize he got rejected. Rejected by the most raggedy celebrity he’d ever met.

‘I’m staying here, thanks,’ Potter continued, his voice still as warm as before. ‘You’re welcome to join us. We bought way too much candy, didn’t we, Ron?’

Harry was clearing the seat next to him when Weasley kicked him in the foot.

It disgusted Draco. Not only was he stealing Potter away when Draco had been first to spot him; not only had his filthy pet wounded Potter; but now he _kicked_ him too?

‘I’d rather perish,’ Draco answered Harry’s question. ‘See you at school, Potter.’

Draco nudged Crabbe and Goyle to leave, and they went back to their compartment.

‘This is not to be borne,’ Draco fumed, copying one of his ancestors' favourite scorns. ‘Harry Potter in our year! And he’s befriending a Weasley! Wait until my father hears about this.’

. . .

The sorting ceremony was merely a formality. Draco bid his time until his name was finally called, then he swaggered forward and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, ‘SLYTHERIN!’

Pleased, Draco went to join Vincent and Gregory at the Slytherin table, who had already been sorted, and together they waited until Pansy joined them too.

After the P for Parkinson, there weren't many people left. A pair of twin girls, "Patil" and "Patil", walked up to the hat one by one.

‘They said I stink,’ hissed Pansy. ‘Like a pig, because I look like one.’

Draco frowned. They deserved death, he thought.

As the second sister walked over to the Ravenclaw table, he took out his wand and fired a little tripping jinx. She fell flat on her face, to great laughter of the other students. Draco and his friends smirked maliciously at each other.

McGonagall’s voice called, ‘Potter, Harry!’

Draco gasped, looking at his friends. ‘D’you reckon–…?’

Pansy crossed her fingers. As Harry stepped forward, whispers broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

‘Potter, did she say?’

‘The Harry Potter?’

Draco’s father had said Harry Potter was going to be a great dark wizard, and that he might lead the Wizarding World into a new and better age. It was hard to believe, looking at the broken glasses on the boy’s gaunt face, but Draco remembered the way Potter had looked at him in the back of Madam Malkin’s shop, and he knew it would be superb to have him in his friend group.

Students craned to see how the Sorting Hat dropped over Potter’s eyes. The hat took a long time to ponder over which house Harry was best suited for.

‘Please say Slytherin,’ Draco whispered. ‘Please…’

‘GRYFFINDOR!’

The Slytherin students fell back in their chairs, groaning softly and dropping their shoulders, but Draco was still standing to watch Harry walk over to the Gryffindor table. ‘Well, it made a mistake, that's obvious.'

The older students shook their heads. ‘Not likely,’ said one of them.

Pansy tugged at Draco’s robes. ‘He could still become a great dark wizard. Right?’

Again, lots of sceptical looks were shared. Not likely either, apparently.

'My father is not going to like this,' Draco drawled.

‘And now,’ said Dumbledore at long last, ‘bedtime. Off you trot!’

The Slytherin first-years followed their Prefects through the chattering crowds, out of the Great Hall, and down the steps to the Dungeon. Draco’s legs felt like lead, but only because he was so tired and full of food. They followed down meandering corridors, with arched stone walls, all the while yawning and dragging their feet. The voices of the other students bounced around them through the echoing, arching tunnels of the Dungeon, and Draco wondered how one of Mother’s old songs would sound down here. He bet singing in these corridors sounded marvellous.

Draco was just wondering how much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt.

‘Pureblood’ said their Prefect, and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open to show them their Common Room.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and an arched ceiling from which round, greenish lamps were hanging on chains. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them. It had great concealed places to sit, and the back wall was one big window looking straight into the lake. It was like having a massive aquarium in your parlour. The other wall, to the left and right of the mantelpiece, was covered from top to bottom with books. Draco felt straight at home.

‘This way! Keep up!’ said the Prefect. He led them down a few steps into another maze of stone corridors with lots of doors. One of those doors was going to be Draco’s new dorm.

‘Four people a dorm; form groups and pick a bed. No fighting or I will decide for you. You have ten minutes.’

People started carelessly wandering into dorms and Draco panicked. ‘I want to be with you two,’ he hissed at Vincent and Gregory. ‘We need to find one that still has three beds. Quick, split up.’

Frantically, Draco started opening doors and counting the people inside, but everywhere people were at least with two. Two was a way more common number to be than three, he concluded.

‘Here!’ he finally heard Gregory bellow and he was so relieved he almost ran. 

The dorm Gregory found was not empty, but there was only one other boy.

‘Hullo,’ said Draco, flopping on the bed nearest to the wall, opposite of the boy’s bed.

Vincent and Gregory took the beds at the door, which made Draco feel safe; as if they guarded the room.

The new boy had long, mousy hair, almost reaching his shoulders, black-rimmed glasses and a scowl on his face as if he wanted to fight. Draco did not want to fight him – the boy wasn’t as big as Crabbe or Goyle, but he certainly seemed stronger and even slightly taller than Draco.

‘What’s your name?’ Draco asked the boy.

‘Jason Taylor,’ he growled.

Draco racked his brain for the Taylor-family, but couldn’t think of any. ‘Who’re your parents?’

‘You don’t know 'em,’ Jason said. ‘They’re not wizards.’

A startled silence fell over the room. The three friends stared at the boy; then they shared a look.

‘Oh!’ Draco grinned. ‘You’re joking! Right?’

Jason shrugged. ‘I’m not, but whatever.'

Draco felt mortified.

'We don’t have to be friends,' said Jason. 'Just don’t try to kill me or anything, I know Krav Maga.’

‘Who’s that?' Draco sneered, grinning at Crabbe and Goyle. 'Some famous Muggle?’

Crabbe and Goyle sniggered; the boy glared at them.

Falling back on his bed, Draco offhandedly told Vincent and Gregory to just ignore the Mudblood. It was a clear sign of how tired he was. Heaving himself up one last time to see Jason, he told him, ‘You’d be wise to keep such slandering information to yourself next time, you know. It will rub off on us.’

. . .

One of their very first classes at Hogwarts was Potions. It took place down in one of the Dungeons. On their way through the arched, stone corridors, Draco started whistling – and his whistling echoed back at him.

He whistled one short note, waited for the echo to finish and whistled again. It was a wonderful bit of call-and-response.

Looking around, he made sure they were alone in the maze of the Dungeons; him, Crabbe and Goyle. He took a deep breathe: ‘Aaaaaaayo!’

‘Aaaaaaayo!’ shouted the castle.

Draco grinned at his friends. They sniggered and started shouting too. The racket they made felt liberating after sitting in classrooms for hours.

Only when they neared the Potions classroom did they silence themselves.

It was cooler there than up in the main castle, and there were mysterious ingredients, like pickled animals floating in glass jars, all around the walls.

The Professor, Severus Snape, was a friend of the Malfoy family. Draco thought he was hilarious; his dry, drawling way of talking alone cracked him up, and Draco and Pansy had picked up dozens of fancy words from him.

When Draco walked in with Vincent and Gregory, he spotted Harry Potter already sitting halfway down the classroom – next to that nasty Weasley. Draco didn’t understand the Weasley’s appeal. If Harry’d been sorted in Slytherin, the bloodtraitor would have dropped him like a stone.

Draco stopped dead in his tracks, slapping Vincent’s arm. ‘Harry Potter,’ he hissed, and he pulled Crabbe and Goyle along to sit behind Harry.

Snape started the class by taking the roll call, and he paused at Harry's name. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said softly, ‘Harry Potter. Our new – celebrity.’

Draco, Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind their hands, and Harry Potter turned to look at them. He did not seem to think it was funny. In an impulse, Draco pretended to be a screaming fan; jazz-hands and fainting and all. It worked: Harry Potter laughed.

‘You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,’ Snape began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word – Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. ‘Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?’

‘Sleeping potion,’ hissed Draco, but Harry didn’t hear it. He was glancing stupidly at Weasley, who, unsurprisingly, didn’t know either.

One of the most obnoxious people in their year - a Gryffindor with a bossy voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth - was Hermione Granger. Pansy'd found out she was a Mudblood. All of them agreed it was terribly embarrassing, and Draco reckoned someone with a bloodline like that would keep her head down... but not Hermione Granger.

Her hand had shot into the air when Snape was only halfway through his question.

‘I don't know, sir,’ said Harry.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer. ‘Tut, tut - fame clearly isn't everything.’

Draco smirked.

Snape ignored Granger’s hand. ‘Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?’

‘Stomach of a goat,’ Draco mumbled to himself. Quickly, he jotted Snape’s questions down, in case they were on the exam.

Granger stretched her hand as high into the air as it would go without her leaving her seat, but Harry clearly didn't have the faintest idea.

‘I don't know, sir.’

‘Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?’

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle were shaking with laughter. ‘He’s so rude.’

He was also still ignoring Granger’s ridiculously quivering hand. ‘What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?’

At this, Granger stood up, her hand stretching toward the dungeon ceiling.

Draco frowned. ‘Isn’t it the same plant?’

He looked over at Pansy, who was already looking equally puzzled at Draco. She shrugged and tapped her forehead. Draco snorted.

‘I don't know,’ said Harry Potter quietly. ‘I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?’

A few people laughed, and Draco grinned, feeling strangely proud.

Snape, however, was not pleased. ‘Sit down,’ he snapped at Granger. ‘For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death.’

‘Yes!’ hissed Draco, drawing a curly G – for ‘Good job, Draconius!’ – in front of the question.

‘A bezoar,’ Snape continued, ‘is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons.’

‘Whoop!’ Another curly G for Draco.

‘As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.’

Grinning, Pansy put her thumbs up and Draco smugly swept an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.

Snape started pairing up the class to set them to mixing up a simple Potion to cure boils. Draco gestured wildly at their Professor to pair him with Harry Potter.

With a faint smirk, Snape obeyed – Draco could hardly contain a whoop of victory.

Harry Potter grabbed his stuff and walked over to plop down next to Draco, who felt like doing a cartwheel, but managed to refrain.

‘You’re in luck, Potter,’ he said. ‘I excel at Potion making. I would have advised you to pair with me, if the decision weren’t made for you.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Dra,’ said Harry, smiling faintly. Draco shuddered at the horrible nickname. ‘I know how much you love advising me.’

Draco had a hard time not to smile. ‘Piss off, Potter,’ he drawled, ‘and don’t call me Dra.’

The instructions for their Potion were clear enough. Draco had some experience at Potion Making from helping Snape and his parents, but he would bet the Manor that Harry Potter didn’t understand half of it. So Draco took charge.

‘Go fetch our ingredients,’ he told Harry. ‘You can make yourself useful by being my assistant.’

Potter seemed to consider this for a second. Then he snorted, shook his head, and Draco watched him walk meekly to the ingredients cupboard.

Draco wiggled in his chair. He would show Potter the benefits of befriending a Malfoy, he resolved, and make him forget the stupid Weasley in no time at all. 

. . .

Harry Potter did not forget the stupid Weasley. First-year Slytherin only had Potions with Gryffindor, while stupid Weasley sat next to Potter at every class and during breakfast, lunch and dinner; they slept at the same dorm and made their homework together. Draco didn’t stand a chance at getting close to Harry Potter with that ginger bodyguard hanging around the boy at all times.

Or at least, he didn’t until they spotted a notice pinned up in the Slytherin Common Room which made them all cheer: flying lessons would be starting on Thursday. Draco cheered a bit extra on the inside, because Slytherin and Gryffindor would be learning together!

Draco would be able to show Potter how it was done. That Weasley couldn’t possibly know how to fly; he couldn’t even afford a broom, probably.

‘It’s ridiculous that we’re not allowed to bring our own broom, just because we’re first years,’ Draco complained to, well, everyone with ears. ‘Some of us have been flying our whole lives, we’re just as good as any third-years. Some third-years haven’t flown at all yet, and they _are_ allowed to bring their broomstick. It just doesn’t make sense!’

‘If you’re so mad about it,’ drawled Pansy, ‘why don’t you take it up with the Headmaster?’

‘You think I haven’t? I let my father talk to him before we even got here, you see, but it was no good. Well, you know the Headmaster hates us.’

‘The Malfoys?’

‘Well, Slytherins in general, Malfoys in particular,’ he grunted. ‘And vice versa, as you well know.’

Rounding the corner to their next class, he picked up where he left of: ‘I’d be a great asset to the Quidditch team, you know. I’m way better than that tosser they have now as a Seeker - ’

Draco heard a familiar laugh. Wheeling around, he noticed Harry Potter further down the corridor, laughing at him.

‘And you’re so much more humble too, aren’t you?’ Potter shouted all through the corridor.

‘I don’t have to be!’ Draco yelled back. ‘You see, unlike some, I have all my senses! I could see it’s true, blind man!’

Weasley tried to stop Harry from coming towards Draco, but The Boy Who Lived was an unstoppable force and got closer anyway. Draco swaggered over to meet him in the middle.

‘If I had a broom, I’d beat you with my eyes closed, Malfoy,’ Harry said.

‘Easy to say when you don’t have a broom, I suppose,’ sneered Draco.

‘Watch me. Thursday you’re going down.’

Draco loved how intimidating Harry looked. When standing eye to eye with him like this it was really no wonder he of all people defeated the Dark Lord.

Draco scoffed, ‘You didn’t even know what a racing broom was until I explained it to you.’

‘Just because you were raised with Magic, doesn’t mean you’re better than everyone else.’

‘Just because you have a foul scar on your face doesn’t mean that either.’

Draco saw tiny lights in Harry’s eyes. Was he enjoying being insulted?

‘We’ll see,’ said Harry.

Draco narrowed his eyes. ‘Careful, Potter.’

He tried to sound threatening, but really, he’d seen people break all kinds of things falling from broomsticks, and if Harry hurt himself trying to prove something to Draco, it would probably be pinned on the Malfoys. Mother was always warning Draco to be _prudent_. They had to be twice as charming as everyone else, she said. Everyone always found ways to blame the Malfoys, she said, because people were jealous of their bloodline.

. . .

Jason the Mudblood was getting on Draco’s nerves. Every day Draco watched him bop his head or tap his feet, because he was listening to music with his Muggle devices, while Draco couldn’t hear a single note.

‘Leave it, Malfoy,’ muttered Vincent when the Mudblood started to dance while staring defiantly at them – Draco could not let it go unchallenged.

So one fine day he skipped lunch to go to the library. He felt humiliated. How did it come to this, that a Malfoy had to look up Muggle matters? There was no way they were worth this immense shame, but not knowing drove him nuts. Every time he saw Jason the Mudblood put on his strange Muggle headwear, Draco felt a terrible itch inside that he could not scratch. No matter how degrading, he had to put himself through this.

And so he started searching the Muggle section of the library for books about music, but there was an entire shelf devoted to it. For a second he felt overwhelmed. He wanted to be quick; how come there was so many shelf-space devoted to boring Muggles?

He felt like tearing his hair out, and apparently he looked like it too, because a voice beside him said, ‘Can I help you?’

It was Madame Pince.

Quickly, Draco checked his surroundings. As soft as he could, he asked, ‘I need to know about Muggle-ways to listen to music.’

Surprisingly, Madam Pince did not show any sign of disgust, not even when she searched the books on the shelves and picked one out for him. It must have taken her years to become so numb.

She flipped through the book to show him the right chapter. ‘If you want to listen to Muggle music, we have a collection at the Audiovisual Corner.’

She left him alone to read. The chapter told him about "Electronic devices" called “Walkmans”, “Record Players,” “Cassettes” and “Headphones.”

Curiouser and curiouser, Draco thought. Slamming the book shut, he hurried over to the Audiovisual Corner, still glancing around to check if nobody noticed him.

The Audiovisual Corner actually owned both a Record Player and a Cassette Player, and two shelves of Records and Cassettes. He put on the Headphones – feeling very world-wise to know how to handle these things – and almost fell over from shock.

He was hearing sounds as if he was standing right next to the person playing them. Looking around, he was sure there was nobody in the library with an instrument. It was almost like Magic. How did those dull Muggles create this?

After the initial shock of hearing anything at all, Draco started noticing the music itself. It sounded unlike anything he’d ever heard or played himself. A man with a strange, creaky voice was singing about a girl who was flying with diamonds. Draco couldn’t even identify all of the instruments he heard, and it astonished him. This was nothing like Mother’s music. 

He skipped to the next piece, called ‘Don’t stop till you get enough,’ and from the first note, Draco could hardly stay still. An overwhelming feeling flowed through him and suddenly he wanted to kiss every moment in human history that had led to him listening to this song.

Startled by his own reaction, he threw off the Headphones and bolted out of the library.

Filthy Muggles! How dare they exclude his kind from this?!

. . .

That Thursday, the flying lesson started out with material Draco taught himself as a mere infant. The level of the class was sub-idiot.

Draco glanced at Harry Potter, and saw his broom shooting up into his hand on the first try. For some reason, Draco felt proud.

He already knew Harry Potter before he turned out to be famous, Draco would say when he was grown-up. He was the first person to tell him about racing brooms, actually – he’d say – way before Harry became the world’s most famous Quidditch player. Oh yeah, he always called him Harry.

Looking up from his broom, Harry shared an excited look with Weasley. Harry Potter was still so easily excited.

Annoyingly, almost straight after that, the stupid git Neville Longbottom fell of his broom. Draco had no clue how it happened, they weren’t even supposed to lift off yet. The simpleton broke his wrist and Madame Hooch had to bring him to the Hospital Wing.

His face had been amazing though. Draco couldn’t hold it any longer; as soon as Madam Hooch was out of earshot, he burst into laughter. ‘Did you see his face, the great lump?’ he yelled at Pansy, who was standing further down the group with some Slytherin girls. He imitated the stupid, scared face the boy had made, and the girls started giggling. 

The great thing about Pansy was her unapologetic laughter: her shrieking laugh alone was enough to crack Draco up most of the time.

‘Shut up, Malfoy,’ snapped Parvati Patil.

‘Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?’ said Pansy, who’d managed to already be at war with the Patil-sisters since their train ride. ‘Never thought you’d like fat little crybabies, Parvati.’

Draco saw something shiny. He darted forward. ‘Look!’ he said, snatching it out of the grass. ‘It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.’

The Remembrall glittered in the sun as he held it up.

‘Give that here, Malfoy,’ a low voice said.

The Boy Who Lived had stepped forward. He looked fearsome. Everyone stopped talking to watch.

This could be interesting, Draco supposed. ‘I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect – how about… up a tree?’ He supply leapt onto his broomstick, making an effort to make it seem effortless. ‘Come and get it, Potter!’

To his joy, Harry laughed. ‘Oh come on, Draco! Just give it here!’

Draco hovered level with the topmost branches of an oak, teasingly holding out the Remembrall to The Boy Who Lived. ‘Scared of heights, Potter?’ 

Delighted, Draco watched Harry grab his broom.

‘No!’ shouted Granger. ‘Madam Hooch told us not to move – you’ll get us all into trouble.’

Harry ignored her. He looked angry, Draco noted. Harry Potter was surprisingly hot-tempered for a boy with such modest appearance.

He mounted the broom, kicked hard against the ground and up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him.

Draco felt his jaw drop. He thought Harry’d never flown before –

Potter pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and in midair, he turned it sharply to face Draco, who didn’t pull himself together quickly enough, and a smug look of satisfaction crossed Harry’s face.

‘Give it here,’ Potter called, ‘or I'll knock you off that broom!’

‘Oh, yeah?’ said Draco, trying to grin back defiantly at Harry, but feeling worried.

Harry leaned forward and his broom shot toward Draco like a javelin. Draco only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady. A few people below were clapping.

‘No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Dra,’ Harry called, grinning even broader.

No Weasley and Granger up here too, Draco thought. ‘Don’t call me Dra,’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘Catch it if you can, then!’ He threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground.

Harry leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down – next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball. Draco’s gasp mingled with the screams of people watching.

As Draco covered his face and peeked through his fingers, Harry Potter stretched out his hand –

A foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.

Draco stood watching with his heart in his throat and his chin on the ground.

‘HARRY POTTER!’ Professor McGonagall was running toward them. ‘Never – in all my time at Hogwarts –’ Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, ‘– how dare you – might have broken your neck –’

‘It wasn't his fault, Professor –’

‘Be quiet, Miss Patil.’

‘But Malfoy –’

‘That's enough, Mr. Weasley. Potter, follow me, now.’

Draco couldn’t help but smirk. At least Harry Potter didn’t get away with beating him at flying on his very first try.

. . .

Back in the Great Hall, Draco couldn’t believe his eyes. There he was, Harry Potter, still sitting at the Gryffindor table like he wasn’t expelled at all.

‘Let it go, Draco,’ said Vincent, tugging at his cloak. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘You’re always hungry, pig. _Allez_.’

Draco strutted over to the Gryffindor table.

‘Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?’

He smirked as Harry turned towards him.

‘You're a lot braver now that you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you,’ Harry retorted.

Crabbe and Goyle, easily offended when they were hungry, cracked their knuckles and scowled.

‘I'd take you on anytime on my own,’ said Draco. ‘Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only – no contact.’ Seeing Harry’s puzzlement, he was reminded how little the boy knew. ‘What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?’

‘Don’t be a jerk about it, Dra.’

‘Sorry,’ Draco drawled. ‘A wizard’s duel–…’

‘He knows what it is!’ said the Weasel, wheeling around. ‘I'm his second, who's yours?’

Draco looked indignantly at him, then he checked out Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

‘Crabbe,’ he decided. ‘Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked.’

Sneaking around at Hogwarts to duel against The Boy Who Lived! This was so exciting! Draco could skip. He couldn’t help but look around at Harry Potter, and to his great joy, Harry was staring right back at him! In pure excitement, Draco pulled a silly face and put up both his hands in a rude gesture.

With a small smile, Harry turned back to his meal. If Draco hadn’t known any better, he’d believe he’d made Harry Potter shy. 

Draco couldn’t sit still for the entire rest of the evening, driving Pansy mad with his constant rambling about how he’d challenged Harry Potter for a Wizard’s Duel, the tactics he could use, or the best way to reach the Trophy Room in the first place.

‘I’m begging you, Draco, shut up!’ snapped Pansy at last. She was combing her high maintenance, smoky Persian cat – Nimbostratus – whom she resembled greatly, with their similarly flattened faces and murderous expressions. ‘There are hundreds of people in this school, excluding the paintings, please jabber to someone else!’ 

‘Maybe I should,’ Draco snarled. ‘Those paintings have more depth than you garbage Parkinsons could ever achieve.'

'That's racist,' said Pansy, not looking up from the cat. She pulled that card whenever Draco insulted her, just because her family was Chinese. 

As always, Draco ignored her. 'You _know_ Crabbe and Goyle are useless at tactics, Pansington, but your sister– ’

Pansy put one hand on his mouth, pointed her wand at him and whispered. ‘Be quiet.’

Glaring at her, Draco slapped her hand away. Restlessly, he wandered the Slytherin common room, making the older students even more annoyed with him then they already were. This was only his first month and already Draco’d had countless ‘shut up’s and ‘sit still’s thrown at him.

He thought Hogwarts would be different, he thought there’d be things to keep him busy, but so far he was actually more bored than at home. Back at the Manor he had his broom, his violin, his drumkit and the grimoire. He couldn’t freely experiment with Magic here at all, the teachers had been clear on that. Perhaps he really would have been better off at Durmstrang, like Father had wanted.

His very own mother forbade him to bring his violin, but as soon as he was allowed to go home, he was going to take it back to Hogwarts with him no matter what. He’d practice a silencing charm if he must, but he was not going to stop playing just because his violin happened to be an irreplaceable heirloom. He had every right to use it, or Mother should buy him a normal violin he could take with him.

Anyway, there were still hours and hours of violin-less time left to get through before the Duel.

‘Does any of you dung-brains fancy a game?’ he shouted at his fifteenth turn about the room.

‘For Merlin’s sake, someone say yes!’ said a girl Draco’d never seen in his life.

One of the Slytherin Prefects sacrificed himself to play Wizard Chess with Draco. His name was Alexander Orlando, which was a nice name to pronounce, Draco thought.

He rubbed his hands together maliciously. ‘I’ll make you regret the day you learned to play.’

‘Bring it,’ said Alexander Orlando.

After almost two hours, Draco had to admit defeat. He’d played three rounds and he’d lost all three. He’d almost won the second one, though.

‘You didn’t even come close,’ said Alexander Orlando .

Draco scowled.

‘As a Prefect, I should probably forbid you to go out tonight,’ said Alexander Orlando.

Draco nodded. ‘You’re right. I promise I’ll stay in.’

In the castle!

The Prefect snorted. ‘Sure you are. Come on, it’s late. Go to bed.’

‘You’re not my father,’ snarled Draco. ‘I’ll decide for myself.’

It was still an hour until showtime. Draco felt exhausted. He’d tired himself out.

Looking around for his friends, he saw Pansy taking a quiz in Witch’s Weekly with the other Slytherin girls. He got up to kick her.

Nimbostratus fled and Pansy beat his leg hard in return.

‘Ouch!’ He grabbed her wrist and leaned over to whisper, ‘Miss Pansington, may I have your attention?’

She turned away. ‘Thought I was a garbage Parkinson?’

‘That’s exactly why you ought to give me attention. Peasant.’

She snorted, failing to hide it.

‘Where’s Vinciento?’ Draco asked.

‘Taking a nap,’ Pansy told him out of the corner of her mouth. ‘Now piss off.’

Taking a nap? Sometimes Crabbe’s ideas weren’t the worst…

Draco dragged himself down the steps into the dorms. Taking off his shoes and robes, he tucked himself in – and he dropped like stone.

. . .

The birds woke him up. Not real birds of course, the Slytherin dorms were below lake-level, but the ones made of sunlight that his father had enchanted to be Draco’s wake up call.

It was seven o’clock in the morning, and Draco felt weird. There was a foul taste in his mouth and he felt hot and uncomfortable.

As soon as he moved, he noticed he was wearing his school uniform.

Why didn’t he put on pyjamas last night? That was weird. And did he forget to brush his teeth? He never –

With a jolt it all came back to him and he bolted upright. He had to bite his fist to keep him from screaming a very foul word at the top of his lungs.

He forgot!

He forgot to meet Harry Potter for their epic Wizard’s Duel!

Draco felt like dying, this had been his one chance! He had one chance to impress Potter, and he’d slept through it!

Boy oh boy… did he mess this up. Oh, he’d been so excited, how could he forget? How was this possible?

One thing was certain though: no one could find out!

Draco jumped out of bed and furiously shook Vincent awake. ‘Vinciento!’

Lazily, Crabbe opened his eyes.

‘You’re going to tell everyone we went to the Wizard’s Duel last night! If you don’t, I will not be your friend anymore! Ever again! You understand?’

‘Wha–… Wizard’s Duel?’

‘Yes, we’ve been out last night, alright? We’ve been to the Trophy Room, there was nobody there, and then we went back. You’ve got that? Repeat what I said.’

‘Went to a room. Last night.’

Thank Merlin, that was taken care of. Now, Draco could finally brush his teeth. He felt disgusting.

While pondering over his next move, Draco vigorously brushed his teeth. Nimbostratus, Pansy’s Persian cat, circled around his ankles. It reminded him of his friend. Attack, Pansy always said, was the best defence: Draco had to beat Harry to the Great Hall to accuse him of chickening out. If he said it loud enough, no one would suspect Draco of sleeping through it. He just had to be extremely convincing.

He couldn’t possibly wait for his friends to wake up and get dressed and put one foot in front of another in that leisurely way of theirs. Elbowing some incredibly slow second-years aside, Draco rushed to the Great Hall.

Right around the doorway to the Great Hall he arranged himself, and finally, he could relax; breathe for the first time since getting up.

He Accio’d an apple and a big muffin from the Slytherin table, as a treat. The benefit of being early was getting to pick the best stuff for breakfast.

As Draco stood there, the Great Hall steadily filled up. Crabbe and Goyle arrived, swiftly stuffing their plates as usual. A while later even Pansy strolled in, looking clean and flawless and eager to kill.

‘Morning, Pansington,’ said Draco, knowing she’d shoot him a deadly look – which she did.

‘How was the fight?’ she asked, with that grouchy morning voice of hers.

‘It was perfectly lovely,’ said Draco. ‘Potter punked out.’

‘Typical,’ Pansy muttered, shuffling over to the Slytherin table.

At long last he heard a second creaky morning voice coming from the Entrance Hall.

‘What could possibly need such protection?’ Harry Potter asked, stifling a yawn.

‘It's either really valuable or really dangerous,’ Draco heard another voice; no doubt the Weasel.

‘Or both,’ said Harry.

Right on time, Draco stuck out his leg. Harry stumbled over it and Draco almost cheered.

‘Too scared after all, Potter?’ he greeted.

Weasley jumped in front of Harry. ‘We were there!’ he said. ‘You chickened out!’

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell your weasel to stand down.’

Weasley clenched his fists. ‘Let’s go, Harry.’

‘Yeah, go. I’ll meet you there.’ Harry pushed Weasley away.

Ron Weasley walked like a monkey: O-legs, swaying shoulders, dangling arms. He looked sluggish and dumb, Draco thought.

Harry turned back to Draco and leaned towards him, boring his grass green eyes into Draco’s like there was no tomorrow. Draco reckoned it was with a gaze like that that Potter killed the Dark Lord.

Draco forced himself not to back away. The wall in his back helped.

‘Did you trick us?’ Harry inquired. ‘Hermione says you told on Filch.’

Draco put on his best scowl and stuck to his _plan d’attaque_ : ‘I assumed you told on Filch. We couldn’t even get near the stupid trophy room, that buffoon was everywhere. It took forever to get back without being caught. It was honestly such a drag.’

Harry nodded. Draco thought he looked tired. For a second he even wondered why, then he remembered Harry Potter had been out all night in an attempt to fight Draco, who had been sleeping like a rose the whole time.

‘We almost got caught as well,’ said Harry.

So the Mudblood assumed that Draco had set this whole thing up to get the Gryffindors into detention? That was quite clever. More clever at least than Draco’s real reason for not making an appearance.

‘I should’ve tipped Filch off,’ he muttered to himself.

Harry grinned. ‘It would have been the Slytherin thing to do.’

‘Yes.’ Draco smirked. ‘Tell Weasley I did that.’

Feeling perfectly satisfied making Harry Potter smile before eight in the morning, Draco sat down in between Vincent and Gregory. He loved the two of them, because they hardly said a word. He could talk and talk to them, and they wouldn’t complain for a second. So he did.

As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual, everyone's attention was caught at once by a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. To Draco’s astonishment they dropped it right in front of Harry Potter.

Draco stood up to get a closer look.

Potter ripped open a letter, read it, then handed it to Weasley. They both looked thrilled, but they didn’t open the package. Instead, they hurriedly left, leaving their breakfast behind, but taking the package with them.

Draco shared a look with Vincent and Gregory, who seemed equally curious. When Draco sneaked out of the Great Hall –away from the teacher’s prying eyes – Crabbe and Goyle followed. They barred the way upstairs before Potter and Weasley could reach it.

As soon as Potter reached them, Draco seized the package and felt it. ‘That's a broomstick.’ He threw it back to Harry. ‘You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first years aren't allowed them.’

‘It's not any old broomstick,’ the Weasel felt it necessary to butt in. ‘It's a Nimbus Two Thousand. What did you say you've got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?’ Weasley grinned at Potter. ‘Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus.’

‘What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the handle,’ Draco snapped back. ‘I suppose you and your brothers have to save up twig by twig.’

Before Weasley could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Draco's elbow. ‘Not arguing, I hope, boys?’ he squeaked.

‘Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor,’ said Draco.

‘Yes, yes, that's right,’ said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. ‘Professor McGonagall told me all about the special circumstances, Potter. And what model is it?’

Special circumstances? Draco couldn’t believe it! What special circumstances made it fair for one student to fly and for all the others to stay put in their Common Room – especially when said student had only flown one time in his entire life before and didn’t even know the rules to Quidditch!

‘A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir,’ said Harry.

At least he looked properly happy about it, Draco thought, but it still wasn’t fair.

‘And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it,’ Harry added.

Draco felt like making a scene. This was absolutely unfair. Harry was right, it was thanks to Draco that he got that broom. If Draco made a scene, though, it would probably hurt his chances to befriend The Boy Who Lived – or: The Boy Every Adult Was In Love With, apparently. What reason could possibly justify Potter getting a broom? Why Potter? Why not Malfoy?

Potter and Weasley walked off. Draco enviously followed the broom with his gaze as Harry handed it to Weasley. Then Potter turned around to make a rude gesture at Draco, pulling a silly face.

Draco snapped out of his bad mood and pretended to scratch his own eyeballs out in envy. It made Harry laugh all the way up the marble staircase.

Potter was alright, Draco thought. The teachers needed to die though.

. . .

The morning of Slytherin's first Quidditch match against Gryffndor dawned very bright and cold. The Great Hall was full of the delicious smell of fried sausages and the cheerful chatter of everyone looking forward to a good Quidditch match. Everyone, except one miserable looking figure at the Gryffindor table. Potter was staring at his empty plate like he would prefer to die. A boy next to him cheerfully said something while piling ketchup on his sausages, and Harry fired a murderous glare at him that Draco enjoyed very much.

By eleven o'clock the whole school seemed to be out in the stands around the Quidditch pitch. Many students had binoculars. The seats might be raised high in the air, but it was still difficult to see what was going on sometimes.

Some Gryffindors had painted a large banner on some bedsheets, saying Potter for President with a large lion underneath. Draco wished he’d thought of it. No, wait – they were the enemy.

‘Imagine how much cooler this would be if we had Harry Potter in our team,’ he complained to Vincent and Gregory.

They grunted something; Draco wasn’t sure if it was in agreement.

The two teams walked onto the field to loud cheers. Draco pointed his binoculars at Harry, who managed to look tall despite being the youngest and clearly nervous. Harry Potter always kept his composure.

Madam Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand. The players clambered on their brooms. Madam Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle, and fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.

Way up above them, Harry was gliding over the game, squinting about for some sign of the Snitch.

Gryffindor were the first to score. When they did, Harry did a couple of loop-the-loops, making Draco point and laugh. Then a Bludger decided to come pelting his way, more like a cannonball than anything, but Harry dodged it marvellously, no thanks to the Gryffindor Beaters.

Draco screamed, startling his friends. ‘THE SNITCH!’ he roared. ‘It’s the snitch! There!’

‘Huh?’ said Gregory.

Even their own marble royalty Blaise Zabini deigned to look around at Draco. ‘What are you on about?

‘There!’ Draco pointed. Everyone around him was now searching the air with their binoculars on Draco's instructions.

‘Back to Johnson and - no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle, Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes - Flint flying like an eagle up there – ’

'It’s – Now it’s near Adrian!’ Draco screamed.

‘Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers – wait a moment – was that the Snitch?’

‘FINALLY!’ Draco fell on his chair. ‘Oh Merlin, you’re all so blind.’

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left ear.

‘I still don’t see it,’ said Blaise. Draco had to bite his tongue not to snap back.

In a great rush Potter dived downward after the streak of gold. Slytherin Seeker Terence Higgs had seen it, too, at last. Neck and neck they hurtled toward the Snitch – all the Chasers seemed to have forgotten what they were supposed to be doing as they hung in midair to watch.

Harry was faster than Higgs – he put on an extra spurt of speed – WHAM!

Draco covered his face when Marcus Flint had blocked Harry, and Harry's broom spun off course, trying very hard to fling Potter away.

In all the confusion, of course, the Golden Snitch had disappeared from sight again.

It was as Harry dodged another Bludger, which went spinning dangerously past his head, that it happened. His broom gave a sudden lurch. For a split second, Draco thought he was going to fall. His fingers gripped the binoculars so tight it hurt, but he didn’t notice. It was as though the broom was trying to buck Potter off. But Nimbus Two Thousands did not suddenly decide to buck their riders off.

‘Potter’s broom is out of control,' Draco said.

It was zigzagging through the air, and every now and then making violent swishing movements that almost unseated him.

Soon, people were pointing up at Harry all over the stands. His broom had started to roll over and over, with him only just managing to hold on. Then the whole crowd gasped. Harry's broom had given a wild jerk and Harry swung off it. He was now dangling from it, holding on with only one hand.

Draco was standing now, as were the people around him.

Potter’s broom was vibrating so hard, it was almost impossible for him to hang on much longer. The whole crowd was on its feet, watching, terrified, as the Weasleys flew up to try and pull Harry safely onto one of their brooms, but it was no good -- every time they got near him, the broom would jump higher still. They dropped lower and circled beneath him, obviously hoping to catch him if he fell.

‘We have to do something.’

‘Relax, Malfoy,’ drawled one of the older Slytherins. ‘All the Professors are here too.’

‘Look,’ said the Head Girl, ‘Snape’s already helping him.’

Draco pointed his binoculars on Snape, who was moving his lips, looking concentrated – and he saw the Mudblood, creeping underneath the stands.

Gasping, Draco saw her setting fire to Snape’s cloak. ‘That filthy – ’

‘It stopped!’ said the tiniest girl in their year with a squeaky voice; Draco always forgot her name.

Smirking, Blaise looked around at him. ‘You can look again…’

Draco was too nervous to glare at him. He turned the binoculars back on Potter. Up in the air, Harry was suddenly able to clamber back on to his broom.

Harry was speeding toward the ground when the crowd saw him clap his hand to his mouth as though he was about to be sick – he hit the field on all fours – coughed – and something gold fell into his hand.

‘He’s got the Snitch!’ Draco exclaimed.

Potter was waving it above his head, and the game ended in complete confusion.

‘He didn't catch it, he nearly swallowed it,’ Flint was still howling late that night, but it made no difference – Potter hadn't broken any rules – Gryffindor had defeated Slytherin by one hundred and seventy points to sixty.

‘I would’ve caught that stupid Snitch before any of you even noticed it was there,’ Draco loudly reminded everyone.

. . .

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid, but Crabbe and Goyle both managed to fall through it and had to attend Madam Pomfrey for some Pepper-up Potion. The few owls that managed to battle their way through the stormy sky to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health before they could fly off again.

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Slytherin common room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were Professor Snape's classes down in the dungeons, where their breath rose in a mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons.

‘I do feel so sorry,’ said Draco, shivering, ‘for all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they're not wanted at home.’

He was looking over at Harry as he spoke, wishing for a response. Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. Potter, who was measuring out powdered spine of lionfish, slowly turned around to him.

‘Are you inviting me, Malfoy?’ he asked coolly. ‘If not, keep your mouth shut.’

Potter’d been incredibly serious lately, even when Draco did his best impression of him coughing up the Snitch, or when he'd told everyone a wide-mouthed tree frog would be replacing Harry as Seeker next. Sure, the other Slytherins had found it tremendously funny, but there was no point if Harry Potter wasn’t laughing.

Meanwhile, Draco couldn’t stop thinking about Potter managing to stay on that bucking broomstick. It had looked darn impressive.

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a loud puffing sound told them that Hagrid was behind it.

‘Want any help?’ the Weasley was saying, sticking his bright red head through the branches.

‘Would you mind moving out of the way?’ Draco drawled from behind them.

Harry laughed. ‘Could you be more of a brat, Dra?’

‘Oh, hey Potter…’ It took all Draco’s effort to keep his cool – finally a genuine laugh, when Draco was only being himself! 

Then he noticed Snape coming up the stairs, and he started smirking.

‘Are you trying to earn some extra money, Weasley?’ he quietly asked. ‘Hoping to be gamekeeper yourself when you leave Hogwarts, I suppose - that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used to.’

‘Blimey, Malfoy, do you have to?’ Harry shouted while Weasley dived at Draco – 

‘WEASLEY!’ Snape crossed the Entrance Hall.

Weasley let go of the front of Draco’s robes.

‘He was provoked, Professor Snape,’ said Hagrid, sticking his huge hairy face out from behind the tree. ‘Malfoy was insultin' his family.’

Draco snorted.

‘Be that as it may, fighting is against Hogwarts rules, Hagrid,’ said Snape silkily. ‘Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley, and be grateful it isn't more. Move along, all of you.’

Potter glared at him. Draco felt like blowing him a kiss just for shits and giggles, but instead he, Crabbe, and Goyle pushed roughly past the tree, scattering needles everywhere and smirking.

Harry Potter pressed his lips together, as if trying not to laugh. 

. . .

At last, Christmas break arrived, and Draco could go home to fetch his violin. He’d been thinking about the Muggle music all through last term, wondering how bad it was that he… that he might… like it. He’d been going to the Audio-Visual Section of the Library increasingly more often, and discovered what the weird words meant. The Muggles called them Genres, but to Draco they felt like entire cultures that were new for him to discover. Whenever he did though, it made him feel dirty. He kept wondering what his parents might think, but he was too scared to write them about it.

While Draco was practicing his violin in front of the library window, his father sat down to read.

Draco bolstered up the courage. Taking a deep breath, he put down his violin. ‘Dad?’

His father did not look up from his book. ‘Dragonchild?’ 

‘There is this… In Slytherin there is a –’

Why was it so scary to talk about this to his own dad? It shouldn’t be, Draco thought. He just wanted to know something. It was merely a question. He hadn’t done anything yet.

His dad looked at him, raising an eyebrow. ‘Spit it out.’

‘There is this boy in my house…’ Draco’s voice trailed off as he wondered how to continue.

His father raised both his eyebrows now. ‘And you… like him?’

‘God no!’ said Draco. ‘He’s an absolute bore!’

‘Don’t say “god,” Draco, it’s hurtful.’

‘ _Merlin_ no,’ Draco corrected. ‘But he said... Dad? Is it _hurtful_ to listen to Muggle music?’

‘Muggle music?’ His dad burst out laughing. ‘As if Muggles know anything about music!’

‘Well, Jason says…’

His father wrinkled his nose. ‘Jason? Common name.’

‘Tell me about it. But he told me about their music and it is… It is fairly nice, Muggle music.’

Draco studied his father’s reaction, but he seemed only surprised, as surprised as Draco had been.

Father’s lack of anger encouraged Draco. ‘There’s even some things I would like to try and play myself. They have genres in Muggle music, a lot more than we have. Have you ever heard of musicals, dad?’

His father scowled, looking confused. ‘I have not.’

‘It’s like a play, except they also sing and dance in it.’

His father’s eyebrows went almost through the roof. ‘That is entirely misplaced.’

That’s what Draco thought. It intrigued him how the Muggles managed to combine three artforms at once – without using Magic, no less.

‘I feel left out,’ he complained.

Father shook his head. ‘That will not do. Take it from them! Steal their genres and make them yours. They should have been ours in the first place! It should not prove to be difficult; if Muggles can do it.’

‘I don’t think I can take it away from them, Father, but is it… I simply wondered, is it considered…’ How had his mother put it? ‘ _Comme il faut_ to play their music? And to listen to it?’

‘Malfoys make the rules, Draco. Nobody can tell us what to do!’

Draco smirked maliciously. ‘Splendid.’

First, he would take their Colours of the wind, on the clarinet, and then he would try something French to please his mother, Father always said she had a weakness for French. Perhaps Les Misérables, which sounded wonderfully dramatic. Tomorrow he would attempt a piece called Smells like teen spirit on his drum kit. It had a weirdly aggressive style of drumming that he’d never heard before.

‘Oh, Draco, do magically improve this Muggle invention,’ warned his father casually. ‘We do not want to embarrass ourselves.’

‘Of course, father. I would not like it any other way.’

Draco couldn’t wait to see his mother’s face when he played a magically improved song to her from a genre she’d never even heard of before.

Draco felt like a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

‘Ha ha ha,’ sounded a voice.

Father’s face became an unreadable mask. ‘Uncle Barney,’ he nodded tightly, as the ghost of a squat, cheerful man floated through one of the bookcases.

Barney Malfoy was an ancestor who died of pneumonia in the thirteenth century. He was one of the six ghosts inhabiting Malfoy Manor, and Draco’s favourite. Most of the ghosts kept to themselves, but Barney enjoyed listening in and sometimes felt the need to meddle in the lives of any currently living Malfoys.

Barney beamed at Draco and his father. ‘What’s all this? Talk about Muggles? In Malfoy Manor?’

‘Hardly,’ sneered Draco’s father. ‘You can go back to your own business, Barney, we have no need for you here.’

‘Well, well, well,’ said Barney slowly. ‘Allow _me_ to be the judge of that, old man. Now, Drakey, did you know –’

‘Barney, I am warning you,’ said Father.

Barney swirled around. ‘Do you hear that, _petit_? Your father tries to silence me! I am being repressed!’

Draco sniggered. ‘Did I know what, Uncle Barnaby? Tell me.’ He pretended not to see the look on his father’s face.

Barney gleamed. ‘Well, son, your father might choose not to remember –’

‘Barney…!’

‘ – but I happened to be around back in the days when the Malfoys –’

‘I do not want you to tell him this,’ boomed Father. ‘Filling his head with lies will only confuse our boy.’

Barney pretended to fall to his knees in surrender, covering his head as he trembled.

It made Draco laugh, but his father seemed to get angrier every second. ‘Stop your antics this minute.’

Barney heaved a sigh, winked at Draco, and floated out of the room. ‘Superior orders! What can one do…’

Draco tried not to smirk. “Superior orders” was a code word between the two of them, meaning Draco should look the ghost up later in the attic.

After Draco’d practiced his scales, as well as a composition by his great aunt Tiffany Malfoy III, he reckoned he’d practiced long enough to convince his dad he forgot Barney. He sauntered out of the library, then ran upstairs to the attic as fast as he could.

‘Uncle Barnaby?’ he whispered, while quietly closing the attic door behind him. ‘Are you here?’

‘BOO!’ Barney swooped up through the wooden floor and Draco almost screamed.

He threw a loose lamp through the ghost from one of the many piles of rubbish lying around, but they were both laughing.

‘Careful with those, young man! They were your great great great great –’

‘Tell me everything,’ Draco cut in, as he threw some books aside to sit down on a surprisingly comfortable rocking chair.

Quickly, Barney beckoned him to get up. ‘Touch nothing, _petit_.’

Draco scowled. ‘It is _my_ attic.’

‘I heartily agree with you, young master. But, you see, this here chair would have slowly lulled you into an infinite sleep. Now, do you want to hear about Malfoys and Muggles, or not?’

Draco sat down on the floor, careful not to touch anything else, while Uncle Barney cleared his throat importantly and started pacing the air in the room.

‘In 1689 the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was signed,’ he started, whirling around to Draco. ‘Are you making notes, young man?’

‘Mental notes.’

‘Some people – like that blasted Ralston Potter’ – Barney shook his fist – ‘were great supporters of this law.’

‘We are too, you know,’ Draco loudly interrupted. ‘It keeps us safe from the Muggles, you see.’

‘Aha!’ Barney triumphantly held up his finger. ‘And that is where your clever Uncle Barnaby comes in, _mon petit_. To draw a distinction between truth and propaganda.’

‘What?’

Barney gasped in shock, then put on a high-pitched voice and pretended to sweep invisible hair over his shoulder. ‘Do not say _what_ , darling –’

‘Say excuse me!’ Draco finished in the same high-pitched voice, and they giggled.

‘You see, before the Statute, the Malfoys had always been associating with high-born Muggle circles. You know, aristocracy and royalty like William the Conqueror and Queen Elizabeth I. Now, how, young Master Draco, did you reckon we ever managed to gather our vast collection of Muggle treasures and works of art?’

‘Why, we stole them.’ 

‘Wrong!’ Barney shouted, laughing manically. ‘We would buy them! Fully legal! Or we would receive them as gifts. You see, we were great friends with the wealthy and powerful Muggles. Obviously, we would never consider the poor sods equals – Merlin forbid, can you imagine that – and it would never in a million years occur to us to associate ourselves with any of the lower class Muggles – there was simply no reason – but we did very much benefit from our relationships with high Muggle society. In fact, one of your ancestors, whom I shall not call by name, had a lovely relationship to Maria Gunning, who was unanimously considered the most beautiful Muggle of the 16th century.’

Draco could hardly believe his ears. 

‘Anyway, during those days, we were strongly – fervently – opposed to the Statute of Secrecy, you know. For, you see, it would take away a big part of our lifestyle, of our influence. Why, it would force us to withdraw from a highly enjoyable sphere of social life!’

Draco nodded like he understood. He understood none of it.

‘Now, as you well know, the Statute happened no matter how our family pleaded against it. Even in those days, what mattered to Purebloods was ruthlessly ignored by the commoners of the Wizarding World. So, instead of a lovely, perfectly respectable war against the Muggle ragtag – that we would no doubt have won – we went into hiding, like cowards! Attack – as it turned out – was not the Wizarding World’s idea of the best defence…’

‘Yes, I know,’ Draco drawled. ‘Geralt never shuts up about it.’

Geralt Malfoy was the ghost of a handsome young soldier living in the forecourt. He died of his wounds during the War of Roses in the fifteenth century and kept guard on the premises surrounding Malfoy Manor ever since. He generally had a lot to say about defensive strategies and war tactics.

‘Once the Statute was passed into law in 1692, the Malfoys cut off all ties with Muggle families, as we realised that further opposition would distance us from the _new_ heart of power: the Ministry of Magic. Yes, _petit,_ there was a time – a glorious time of freedom – that we did not yet have Mother Ministry to smother us with rules and regulations.’

‘Are you saying,’ Draco summarized, ‘that we were friends with Muggle queens and artists, but we abandoned them because the Ministry said so?’

‘Oh no no no, silly boy. We abandoned them on our own accord. You see, in the newly established hierarchy it would benefit us much more to _agree_ with the Statute than to keep kicking against it like a spoiled child. So we performed an abrupt volte-face –’ Barney proudly snapped his fingers ‘ – and became vocally supportive of the Statute! Adapt and overcome! From that moment onwards, we hotly denied ever having fraternised with Muggles – a lie your father has even successfully convinced _himself_ of. Well, historians have tried – oh, how they have tried! – to hit us around the head with evidence: dates, books, eyewitness reports – but once again, Malfoys came out on top. Historically speaking, _mon petit,_ Malfoys _always_ come out on top. Remember that!’

For a second, Draco didn’t know what to say. Then the full truth of what Barney had told him dawned on him. Bewildered, he muttered, ‘My life is a lie…’

Barney’s barking laugh filled the attic. ‘Ooh, you remind me so strongly of young Ferdinand Malfoy sometimes, you have that same streak of the dramatic. Help me remember to show you his belongings when you are older.’

‘But Barnaby, I thought we hated Muggles.’

Barney’s face became cold. ‘Oh, we do. We hate Muggles with a burning passion. You have no idea what they did to us, Drakey, you are too young to fathom the terror. The only reason you are alive today is because your ancestors have been avid survivors of Muggle attacks at every point in history. More than once have we been prosecuted, hunted – killed even, in the case of – oh, I should not burden you with these things. You are too young. Let me just say, _mon petit_ , that the Statute has brought us both good things as well as limitations. As you will learn when you are older: life is never black-and-white. Too often, it is about weighing off the evil against the lesser evil.’

The wooden floor started to hurt Draco’s butt. ‘Right,’ he drawled as he got up, dusting off his pants. ‘Thank you, Uncle Barnaby, but I have heard enough.’

The ghost smiled. ‘Moral of the story,’ he cheerfully concluded while floating after Draco out of the attic, ‘enjoy Muggle art as much as you like, little one.’

Draco smirked to himself. He could work with a moral like that.

. . .

‘Pansy! Pansy, look at this!’

They were all back at the castle again – including any ancient violins – milling about in the Slytherin Common Room.

‘Hey! Parkinson!’

The second Pansy reluctantly turned away from Nimbostratus and her gang of Slytherin girls, Draco fired a new spell he learned, at Vincent who was sitting with Gregory on the couch, eating leftover chicken they took with them from dinner. At once Vincent’s legs stuck together. Draco did the same thing with Gregory.

‘Draco!’ Gregory wailed, trying and failing to spread his legs. ‘Turn them back!’

Draco smirked as Pansy shrieked with laughter.

‘Watch!’ Draco swaggered to the middle of the common room, so nobody would miss out on the action, and he pointed his wand on his legs. ‘Locomotor Mortis!’

His legs sprung together and Draco wobbled theatrically, waving his arms as he sloppily made himself tumble over, his arms spread out in total defeat, eyes closed and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Because he was dead.

Vincent, Gregory and Pansy laughed, and so did Pansy’s friends. It was Draco’s cue to look up, leaning on his elbows. ‘Good, isn’t it? Can I try it on you?’

‘Not if you want to live, darling,’ said Pansy. With a malicious smile she added, ‘Go try it on Potter.’ She looked like an evil genius, stroking Nimbostratus and smiling like that.

Draco scowled at her. ‘You know I’m not allowed.’

During Christmas Break, his father had explained that it would put a blemish on the entire Malfoy name if Draco harmed Harry Potter or did anything that wasn’t aiding in securing a friendship. Father still had hope of Harry becoming a glorious Dark Wizard, and even if he didn’t, it couldn’t hurt to be friends with the most famous wizard in the country. Mother said if Draco couldn’t say anything nice, he shouldn’t say anything at all.

‘I’ll find someone else,’ he promised himself out loud, while unlocking Gregory’s, Vincent’s and then his own legs with a flourish. As he got up to leave in search of a victim, so did Crabbe and Goyle. Draco was thankful for them. They always liked to be in on Draco’s action.

They had to search well. At this time of night, most people were in their common rooms. The students who did still walk around on their own were double Draco’s size. Even with Crabbe and Goyle accompanying him, he would be nervous practicing his curse on such people.

Suddenly Vincent pushed him. Or maybe he just tried to lightly tap Draco’s shoulder, but his friends were much steadier on their feet than Draco was.

He followed Vincent’s gaze. ‘Ha! Good eye, Crabbe.’

There, shuffling out of the library, with that dumb, fearful face, was Neville Longbottom. His arm was healed, but Draco had not forgiven him quite yet for cutting their flying lesson with Harry Potter short with his undeniably redundant accident.

‘Longbottom,’ he drawled, stepping out of the shadows to block the boy’s way. ‘We were looking for you.’

Longbottom’s face got even more frightened and stupid than before. ‘F-for me?’

‘Yes, you. I want to practice a new spell. Do you want to see it? Oh, silly me, of course you do!’

Draco pointed his wand. Longbottom just stood there, shaking a little.

‘I thought you were supposed to be brave to get sorted into Gryffindor?’ sneered Draco. ‘Come on then, you dung-brain, defend yourself.’

Longbottom’s eyes widened, then he scrambled to get his wand out. It fell on the tiles.

‘What was that?’ Draco sneered. ‘Oh, it was your only chance. Locomotor Mortis!’

The boy’s legs snapped together marvellously, just like it was pictured in the book, and the way he stumbled to the ground was so similar to Draco’s bit in the common room that it had the three of them rolling on the floor laughing.

‘You’re dead, Longbottom!’ jeered Draco. Vincent and Gregory guffawed.

Then they heard someone coming from the library and quickly Draco pushed his friends into a secret corridor.

Oh, what a night!

. . .

During a particularly difficult Potions class in which the insipid Harry Potter had not stopped nagging Draco about his perfectly executed Leg Locker curse, Draco noticed Professor Snape was even more horrible to Potter than usual.

The Professor was just telling everyone to look at the perfect way Draco had stewed his horned slugs when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. That dung-brain Longbottom had somehow managed to melt another Gryffindor’s cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes.

Before Draco noticed, Harry had pulled him up on their stools. Sucking on his teeth, Draco drawled, ‘Added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, mark my words. Useless dung-brain…’

The whole class was standing on their stools now, while Longbottom, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

‘Idiot boy!’ snarled Snape, appropriately, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. ‘I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?’

‘Told you.'

Longbottom whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose. ‘Take him up to the hospital wing,’ Snape spat at some poor Gryffindor. Then he rounded on Harry. ‘You – Potter – why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor.’

Draco’s mouth fell open. That was really uncalled for. He saw Harry getting ready to fight, and searched frantically for something to distract him, before he’d lose himself more points, or worse – influence their grade.

Then he saw it and he snorted, grabbing Potter’s arm. ‘Look at his feet!’ he hissed.

Potter’s obsessive, ever so righteous anger kept him from looking, so Draco yanked at his arm. ‘Look at his socks, Potter, his socks!’

The potion had burnt through Snape’s shoes, revealing socks with little pink cauldrons on them.

Slowly but surely, Harry’s frown faded and he started grinning. Soon, the two of them were sniggering behind their hands, careful to hide it from their livid Professor.

. . .

‘A toast!’ shouted Marcus Flint, jumping on top of the highest table in the Slytherin Common Room, holding a glass of Butterbeer in the air. It looked wonderfully theatrical. ‘To our great friend Severus Snape, who will be refereeing the match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff!’

They all cheered. If Hufflepuff defeated Gryffindor, it meant Slytherin had a great chance at getting the Quidditch Cup again!

'If they don’t lose against Hufflepuff,' roared Flint, 'it means we didn’t bully them enough! Go forth and devastate!’

‘Woooo!’

Hats were flying through the air. Pansy climbed next to Flint up the table to slam back his Butterbeer and scream loudest of everyone present.

. . .

‘Come, it’ll be great fun,’ said Draco as he lead Vincent and Gregory onto the Gryffindor stands. They spotted the ginger and the bushy head almost at once. They were sitting with that sad figure, Longbottom.

‘I've never seen Snape look so mean,’ they heard Weasley tell Granger. ‘Look, they're off – Ouch!’

‘Oh, sorry, Weasley, didn't see you there.’ Draco grinned broadly at Crabbe and Goyle. ‘Wonder how long Potter's going to stay on his broom this time? Anyone want to bet? What about you, Weasley?’

Weasley didn't answer; Snape had just awarded Hufflepuff a penalty. Granger, who had all her fingers crossed in her lap, was squinting fixedly at Harry, who was circling the game like a hawk, looking for the Snitch.

‘You know how I think they choose people for the Gryffindor team?’ Draco said loudly a few minutes later, as Snape awarded Hufflepuff another penalty for no reason at all. ‘It's people they feel sorry for. See, there's Potter, who's got no parents, then there's the Weasleys, who've got no money -- you should be on the team, Longbottom, you've got no brains.’

Longbottom went bright red but turned in his seat to face them. ‘I'm worth twelve of you, Malfoy,’ he stammered.

Draco, Vincent and Gregory howled with laughter. ‘Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something.’

‘I'm warning you, Malfoy - one more word.’

‘Ron!’ said Granger suddenly, ‘Harry –’

‘What? Where?’

Harry had suddenly gone into a spectacular dive, which drew gasps and cheers from the crowd. Draco’s view got blocked when that miserable Mudblood found it necessary to get up, so he stood up too as Harry streaked toward the ground like a bullet.

‘You're in luck, Weasley, Potter's obviously spotted some money on the ground!’ said Draco, his hands clenched in excitement as he watched Potter dive.

Out of the blue, Weasley snapped. Before Draco knew what was happening, Harry’s stupid Monkey-friend was on top of him, wrestling him to the ground. A sharp pain rushed through his face when Weasley punched him. He was screaming for help, but next to him, Crabbe and Goyle were wrestling with Longbottom.

Draco got out of it with a black eye – which hurt for days – and the only reason it wasn’t worse, was because Crabbe and Goyle knocked out Longbottom and then saved Draco.

The worst thing was that they missed out on Harry catching the Snitch. Since then, after every single Gryffindor match Pansy would say: ‘Not as good as that catch he did in first year against Hufflepuff.’

. . .

During their next Potions class Harry Potter was too angry with Draco to laugh at his jokes, no matter how hard he tried. Apparently, Weasley had told him his view of the events at the Quidditch game, and Draco didn't come out of those very well. It turned out Harry Potter did not like being pitied for not having parents, and he did not find it funny that Draco told Weasley it was the reason he got selected for the team. The fact that Weasley had punched Draco was apparently not that big a deal in Potter's world – interesting.

Draco quickly grew bored of the subject. ‘Let’s all beg Merlin that Weasley beats me to death next time,’ he drawled, ‘so I don’t have to listen to any more of your dreary monologues, Saint Potter.’

Walking through the Dungeons back up to Defence Against the Dark Arts, Draco was seriously reconsidering whether it had been the best move to make Snape partner him with The Boy Who Lived. He wasn’t allowed to say or do anything fun with him around.

Sure, Potter made Draco laugh and forced him to step up his game all the time, and sure, Harry was strikingly fearless and powerful, but still looked up in amazement at Draco whenever he told him something he didn’t know – which was every other sentence – and yes, Potter was a great mystery to unravel, with his massive amount of scars or the way he beat the Dark Lord as a new-born or with his hair that seemed to lead a life of its own… But so what if Potter –

‘Hermione, how many times in our lives are we going to see a dragon hatching?’

Draco’s head shot up. Did Weasley just say… dragon? A dragon hatching?

Draco quickly got closer to listen in on their conversation.

‘We've got lessons,’ Granger said. ‘We'll get into trouble, and that's nothing to what Hagrid's going to be in when someone finds out what he's doing –’

Hagrid? Did the Gamekeeper have a dragon?

‘Shut up!’ Harry said. He’d caught sight of Draco listening in.

Draco absolutely adored dragons. When he was in his mother’s belly, Aunty Bel had painted a huge one on his wall, with metallic paint and glitters. It followed him around through the room and when he was sad or overexcited it breathed fire or winked at him.

With his head in the clouds, Draco almost followed the Gryffindors to their class. Thankfully, he got sorted into the most solidary House of the lot and was pulled into the right direction by three of his classmates.

Tearing his gaze away from Potter’s back, he caught Pansy’s eye. She was smirking and shaking her head. ‘Do not dream, Draconius.’

Draco didn’t tell her what he’d heard. He didn’t tell anyone. He needed to be sure first. If there really was a dragon, he wanted to be the first to see it.

So without thinking too much about it, he ran down to Hagrid's hut during morning break, and saw the three Gryffindors hurrying through the grounds to the edge of the forest. As soon as they were inside, Draco stalked after them like an idiot ninja to peek through Hagrid’s window.

There was a big egg lying on the table, with deep cracks in it. Something appeared to be moving inside. Harry Potter and the others had drawn their chairs up to the table to watch it.

Suddenly, the egg split open. A baby dragon flopped onto the table.

It was gorgeous, in a very unattractive way. The dragon looked like a crumpled, black umbrella. Its spiny wings were huge compared to its skinny jet body, it had a long snout with wide nostrils, the stubs of horns and bulging, orange eyes.

It sneezed. A couple of sparks flew out of its snout.

Hagrid reached out a hand to stroke the dragon's head. It snapped at his fingers, showing pointed fangs.

Draco wanted one. He would write Father at once.

Suddenly Hagrid looked up and his eyes met Draco’s. He leapt to his feet and ran to the window.

As quick as he could, Draco turned and bolted back to the castle.

. . .

Draco wrote his parents the minute he got back at school. He made a solid argument in favour of adopting a dragon, if he said so himself, claiming if someone like Hagrid could hatch one, so could a bleeding Malfoy. It would be the perfect addition to the Manor to have a dragon for a guard; and Draco would be able to fly with it to school, so he didn’t have to bother with that old-fashioned train. Public transport really wasn’t a suitable way for a Pureblood to travel anyhow.

The benefits of owning a dragon far outweighed any objections his parents could come up with, he was sure of it.

The next morning, when the owls arrived, his parents sent him their reply. To his disappointment, they did not agree with him. Apparently, dragons were illegal. Hagrid risked huge repercussions to keep a dragon.

Now Draco understood why Harry and Hagrid had been so uptight about Draco seeing the animal – and for the first time in his life, Draco felt the power of knowledge. Hagrid was at Draco’s mercy.

The next couple of days, Draco kept a close watch on Hagrid, Harry Potter and his friends, and soon enough, Weasley got himself injured.

As quick as he could, Draco went to the Hospital Wing to have a good laugh at him. Madam Pomfrey turned out to be incredibly gullible and believed Draco when he told her he wanted to borrow one of Weasleys books. As if Weasleys had books!

Vividly remembering the black eye Weasley gave him – for no reason at all – Draco had loads of fun threatening the Monkey to tell Madam Pomfrey everything about the dragon. He would never do it - that would spoil the fun - but Weasley kept breaking into sweat anyway. He handed over all his candy and an actual book, just to shut Draco up.

‘Fine,’ Draco drawled, having trouble carrying his loot. ‘If you insist.’

Dumping it all on his bed at the Slytherin dorms, Weasley’s book fell open. A letter whirled down.

_‘Dear Ron,_

_How are you? Thanks for the letter – I'd be glad to take the Norwegian Ridgeback, but it won't be easy getting him here. I think the best thing will be to send him over with some friends of mine who are coming to visit me next week. Trouble is, they mustn't be seen carrying an illegal dragon._

_Could you get the Ridgeback up the tallest tower at midnight on Saturday? They can meet you there and take him away while it's still dark._

_Send me an answer as soon as possible._

_Love,_

_Charlie’_

Draco’s mouth fell open. A secret mission! Illegally transporting a live dragon! He couldn’t believe it – it sounded so cool!

Did that dull Weasley really have a brother who didn’t even hesitate to pull a stunt like this? Draco moaned in envy. Being an only child was the most boring trait his parents could have given him.

. . .

‘SING ONCE AGAIN WITH ME!’ Draco sang at top volume on one of their detours through the corridors to get to Potions class.

It was one of his favourite things about the castle: their echoing Dungeons.

‘OUR STRANGE DUET!’

He instructed Gregory, with his low voice, to sing a little bassline, and Vincent to just snap his fingers, because he simply sucked at everything else.

‘As I walk down the Dungeon,’ sang Draco.

‘ – As I walk down the Dungeon,’ sang the walls.

‘All I do is sing this song. And the ghost that’s passing my way helps the rhythm move along.’

‘ – Rhythm move along.’

‘There's nothing more that I can say, but on a day like today…’

‘On a day like today…’

‘I pass the time away…’

‘I pass the time away…’

‘And walk a quiet mile with you!’

‘You – you – you…’

Still whistling, Draco entered the Potions classroom.

Potter was already there. In passing, Draco wetted his finger and jabbed it in Harry’s ear.

‘Yugh! Draco!’

Draco laughed scathingly. ‘That’s what you get, Potter.’

‘For what?’ he shot a grumpy look at him.

‘Not noticing me,’ Draco teased.

A big grin broke through Harry’s scowl. 

The day improved even more when they had to work together again. Harry was turning around and around on his stool like he was practicing to be an astronaut.

At some point, he leaned over to Draco. ‘I know you know.’

‘You know I know what?’ said Draco. He couldn’t help but smirk.

Harry frowned. ‘What are you up to, Dra?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Sighing, Harry shoved his chair closer to Draco’s. ‘Please don’t tell anyone.’

This was unbelievable. He’d been on his absolute best behaviour these past months. He’d kept his mouth shut, he didn’t practice any spells on Harry or his friends… yet still Harry Potter suspected Draco to tell on him.

Draco was a Malfoy! He was in Slytherin! Betraying a friend would never even cross his mind!

Maybe – maybe! – he might have toyed with the idea of making the Gamekeeper’s life slightly more miserable, just because he could, but he hadn’t done anything; and it had been literal days since he found out that the half-giant kept a live, illegal, fire-breathing animal in his wooden shed of a house.

Draco had read all the books about dragons he could find in the school library, and it had become increasingly clear to him that keeping a dragon in a wooden house was an unwise decision. Dragons were incredibly unpredictable, difficult to train and to control. To be fair, Draco got kind of scared of them while reading, and for Harry Potter for hanging out with one so often.

Draco tried to remain calm as he thought all this, even putting down his knife.

‘First of all: how dare you, second: you don’t know how dangerous it is what you’re doing, because honestly, so far you haven’t known anything at all. Third: my name literally means dragon. If anyone gets to see a dragon it should be me. I know far more about them than you.’ 

Draco was proud of himself: he had not raised his voice.

The caterpillars did not cut themselves though. He should crack on. 

‘By all means,’ said Harry, ‘take my place dealing with the dragon. It’s yours!’

‘I don’t want to deal with it. I want to see it.’

The caterpillars really got the worst out of this conversation. Good thing they were already dead.

‘You know, you could’ve just asked.’ Harry Potter smiled.

Was he laughing at him?

‘I’d rather die,’ snarled Draco, ‘than ask you anything, Potter.’

Startling Draco, Harry rested his forehead on his shoulder to laugh and laugh.

Sometimes when Harry Potter laughed, it seemed to Draco like his hair crackled; as if it was charged with Magic. It might have to do, Draco figured, with the Riddle of his Existence.

Panicking, Draco glanced around at Pansy, who’d put both her hands over her mouth to muffle her laughter.

‘Meet us in the Astronomy Tower when we get him out,’ Harry told Draco softly. ‘You can see him then.’

. . .

This time, Draco was determined to stay awake for his nightly meeting with Harry Potter. There was no way he would miss seeing a real dragon up close.

So when everyone else went to bed, he sneaked out of the Slytherin common room, and upstairs to the Astronomy Tower. Nobody even noticed him leaving. Or maybe they were too happy to see him leave to hold him up.

He was already at the astronomy tower for hours, when he finally heard someone climbing the stairs. In his excitement, he jumped a few steps down.

‘Do you have it?’ he hissed.

A lamp flared.

‘Mister Malfoy!’ Professor McGonagall, in a tartan bathrobe and a hair net, was looking down at him.

Draco felt like crumbling. He turned on his heel to run away, but Professor McGonagall grabbed him by the ear.

‘Detention!’ she shouted. ‘And twenty points from Slytherin! Wandering around in the middle of the night, how dare you –’

‘You don't understand, Professor. Harry Potter's coming – he's got a dragon!’

‘What utter rubbish! How dare you tell such lies! Come on – I shall see Professor Snape about you, Malfoy!’

McGonagall was furious. Not only did she make Draco miss out on meeting the dragon that night, he got detention too, and a meeting with Professor Snape instead.

One of the worst things, though, was seeing Harry the next day, watching him every time they crossed paths and then quickly glancing away. He looked tormented with guilt, as if he had personally pushed Draco into McGonagall’s arms. Draco wanted to talk to him, but didn’t know how.

Meanwhile, Pansy was livid. Every time she saw Harry, she loudly started about how all Gryffindors were dung-brain buffoons who only ever thought about themselves. She hadn’t even cared about the fact that Harry’d wanted to show Draco a dragon. She only cared that Harry caused Draco to get detention.

‘This is not to be borne!’ she kept saying, because they shared the same ancestor. ‘He lured you onto that tower! Taking advantage of your curiosity! Just because you’re star-struck, doesn’t mean – ’

‘I’m not star-struck,’ scoffed Draco. ‘As a Malfoy I am perfectly neutral about someone with the status of Harry Potter!’

She hardly listened. ‘If the grand celebrity doesn’t bother sticking up for you, then I will!’ she bellowed. ‘Let’s go to Snape, Draco! Let’s go right now!’

She took his hand as if they were still five and scared to lose each other at the grown-ups’ party, and they marched off to Snape’s office.

Pansy Parkinson was afraid of no one. Snape towering over her with his most deadly stare did not make her falter in the slightest.

‘Miss Parkinson,’ Snape said, when at last, the worst of her screams died away. ‘I will not “catch you outside.” Speak to me that way again and I will suspend you. Mister Malfoy, you are expected at the Entrance Hall at eleven tonight. Get out. Now.’

Recognizing Pansy’s face, Draco pushed her out of the office before she could restart.

‘That’s quite enough, miss Parkinson,’ he said as he closed the door behind them, trying his very best to imitate Snape’s drawl.

Pansy changed tactics. ‘Have you noticed,’ she said, looking malicious, ‘that Potter’s nose looks like an ugly dragon’s?’

Shocked, Draco pushed her. ‘How dare you!’

‘His nostrils are huge.’

‘Shut up, Pansy, they are not! The only one in this school with a weird nose is you, and everyone knows it!’

‘Nose it!’ Pansy shrieked at her own pun.

Draco sighed.

. . .

At eleven o'clock that night, Draco gloomily said goodbye to Pansy, Vincent and Gregory in the common room. He blew them a farewell kiss, saying something like how he would wish for them to remember him, but to try and be happy. They stood up, putting their hands on their hearts to give him a farewell salute. Nimbostratus even accompanied him to the door. Draco appreciated it.

He dragged himself up to the Entrance Hall. Filch was already there, but the Gryffindors arrived late – as per usual. When they did, Harry seemed to be in charge of Longbottom and the Mudblood as if the two merely accompanied him.

‘Follow me,’ said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside.

The moon was bright, but clouds scudding across it kept throwing them into darkness. Ahead, Draco could see the lighted windows of Hagrid's hut. Then they heard a distant shout.

‘Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.’

Harry’s head shot up, but Filch was immune to the Magic of The Boy Who Lived. ‘I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf?’ he snapped at him. ‘Well, think again, boy – it's into the forest you're going and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece.’

At this, Longbottom let out a little moan, and Draco stopped dead in his tracks.

‘The forest?’ he repeated. ‘We can't go in there at night – there's all sorts of things in there.’

He’d heard there were werewolves in there!

‘I'll be back at dawn,’ said Filch, ‘for what's left of them,’ he added nastily, and he turned and started back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the darkness.

Draco now turned to Hagrid. ‘I'm not going in that forest,’ he said.

‘Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts,’ said Hagrid fiercely. ‘Yeh've done wrong an' now yeh’ve got ter pay fer it.’

‘But this is servant stuff, it's not for students to do.’

Harry snorted. ‘Prick.’

Draco shot him a look. ‘This is your fault, Potter.’

Harry flinched. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I thought we'd be copying lines or something…’

‘Copyin' lines!’ Hagrid growled. ‘What good's that ter anyone? Yeh'll do summat useful or yeh'll get out.’

Draco didn't move. He looked at Hagrid furiously, but then dropped his gaze.

‘Right then,’ said Hagrid, ‘now, listen carefully, 'cause it's dangerous what we're gonna do tonight, an' I don' want no one takin' risks. Follow me over here a moment.’

Hagrid showed them something in the grass. It was unicorn blood, he said. ‘We're gonna try an' find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery.’

‘And what if whatever hurt the unicorn finds us first?’ said Draco, unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

‘There's nothin' that lives in the forest that'll hurt yeh if yer with me or Fang,’ said Hagrid. ‘An' keep ter the path. Right, now, we're gonna split inter two parties an' follow the trail in diff'rent directions. There's blood all over the place, it must've bin staggerin' around since last night at least.’

‘I want Fang,’ said Draco quickly, looking at Fang's long teeth.

‘All right, but I warn yeh, he's a coward,’ said Hagrid. ‘ So me, Harry, an' Hermione'll go one way an' Draco, Neville, an' Fang'll go the other.’

‘I’m not going with him,’ squeaked Longbottom and even Granger shuffled behind Hagrid.

Draco shot them a contemptuous look. Hagrid glanced around at their little group, stunned, but Harry was petting Fang. ‘Let’s do this, Dra.’

Draco’s heart jolted. If Harry Potter was with him, it couldn’t be so bad. Even crazy, old Dumbledore would never put The Boy Who Lived in harm’s way, right?

The forest was black and silent. A little way into it they reached a fork in the earth path, and Harry, Draco and Fang took the right path while Granger, Longbottom and Hagrid took the left.

‘Is the dragon gone?’ Draco asked conversationally.

‘I–… I’m…’ Harry glanced at Draco, showing that unhealthy amount of remorse again.

So Draco kicked him into the back of his knees, making him stumble and laugh. With a vengeful look, Harry tackled Draco, who yanked Harry's foot away in his fall, so they were both rolling onto the forest ground, laughing their heads off. It took a while before either of them let the other one get up, but eventually Harry tapped into a hidden supply of strength and easily pulled loose. He helped Draco on his feet too.

They were covered in mud, twigs and leaves. Draco tried to clean himself up, but Harry was already moving deeper into the forest.

'Hagrid said this unicorn's in pain, Dra, come on.'

Grumbling, Draco followed him.

‘Ron’s brother took the dragon,' said Harry. 'He works with them.’

Draco caught himself thinking that was pretty awesome, having a brother who worked with dragons. Pansy only had a brother who worked with wands – it wasn’t the same.

‘What was it like? The dragon?’

‘Pretty horrible,’ Harry said softly. ‘It bit Ron quite badly. He had to go to the Hospital Wing.’

‘I know,’ Draco jeered. ‘I paid him a little visit.’

It made Harry frown at him, but Draco couldn’t help it. He loathed Ron Weasley more and more every day. The stupid blood traitor had literally nothing going for him, except that he happened to share a dorm with Harry Potter.

Harry clenched his jaw.

After a while of sulky silence, Draco got bored. There was nothing to be scared of in here. The woods were just trees, and the trees were just wood. Hagrid had said not to wander off the tracks. Draco wondered why.

Without telling The Goody Two-Shoes Who Lived, he slid off the path, walking parallel to Harry between the trees and bushes. There really was nothing going on there.

‘How do you think we should do this?’ Harry asked. He looked around. ’Dra? Draco?’

Trying his best not to laugh, Draco watched the boy blunder around looking for him, growing increasingly more worried.

When the fear in his eyes started to grow into panic, Draco jumped over the bushes and grabbed Potter’s shoulders. ‘BAAA!’

Harry turned at once, wand at the ready – and his face lit up seeing Draco.

He burst out laughing. ‘You prick!’

Draco couldn’t breathe from laughing. ‘You should’ve seen your face!’

‘I thought the werewolves got you!’

‘Oh, they easily could have,’ said Draco, taking charge now to lead his scared little celebrity safely through the woods. ‘It’s positively irresponsible to send kids alone out here. If my father hears about this…’

‘This father of yours sounds like a force to be reckoned with.’

‘Darn right,’ mumbled Draco.

They walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path became almost impossible to follow because the trees were so thick.

Harry was way more invested in their quest than necessary, if you asked Draco. Meanwhile, Draco couldn’t stop thinking about his warm, comfortable bed. At a certain point, he felt like wrapping himself around Harry to doze off for a bit. Just a quick nap, that was all. 

Meanwhile, Potter said he thought the blood on the earth path seemed to be getting thicker. Potter said there were splashes on the roots of a tree, as though the poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. Potter could see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak.

Happy congratulations, Draco thought, stifling a yawn.

‘Look –’ Potter murmured, holding out his arm to stop Draco.

Something bright white was gleaming on the ground. They inched closer.

It was the unicorn, and it was dead. Draco had never seen anything so beautiful and sad. Its long, slender legs were stuck out at odd angles where it had fallen and its mane was spread pearly-white on the dark leaves.

Potter had taken one step toward it when a slithering sound made him freeze where he stood. A bush on the edge of the clearing quivered...

Then, out of the shadows, a hooded figure came crawling across the ground like some stalking beast.

Draco, Harry and Fang stood transfixed. The cloaked figure reached the unicorn, lowered its head over the wound in the animal's side, and began to drink its blood.

Draco screamed, but Harry had covered his mouth to muffle the sound. Draco grabbed his wand in one hand and Harry’s arm in the other and bolted, along with Fang, while firing the red sparks several times, just to be sure.

Thrashing after the dog, stumbling over tree roots, Draco bumped into a solid wall made of fur. It turned out to be Hagrid. Draco’d never been so grateful to see the stupid Game Keeper.

‘Where’s Harry?’ Hagrid bellowed.

Draco whirled around. Where was Harry?

‘Oh _zut_ ,’ he squeaked. ‘Where’s Potter? He was right behind me.’

Hagrid and the others started running – back. Back to the creature. Back to save Harry Potter.

Reluctantly, Draco followed. If only because Hagrid meant relative safety.

‘Harry! Harry, are you all right?’ shouted the Mudblood.

She was running toward a clearing further down the path, Hagrid puffing along behind her. As quiet as he could, Draco followed at their heel. There seemed to be no trace of the creature anymore.

Then his eye fell on Potter, standing quite forlorn in the middle of the clearing. While Granger hugged him, The Boy Who Lived gazed at Draco Malfoy.

When the Mudblood dashed off to look at the unicorn, Harry got left behind. He was shivering.

Draco checked their surroundings one last time while walking towards Harry. He tried to act cool, putting his hands in his pockets and relaxing his muscles, but the fright was still in his bones.

‘You alright, Potter?’ he asked.

Harry shrugged. ‘Sure… You?’

‘I thought you were right behind me,’ mumbled Draco.

Harry ruffled through his magical hair. ‘I er… I froze a bit. Thanks for firing the red sparks.’

Draco smirked. ‘I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave?’ He glanced provocatively at Longbottom, who’d heard him fine, but acted like he didn’t.

Suddenly, Harry was close to Draco, leaning over to whisper, ‘We made that up.’

Draco snorted. It sounded nervous.

Harry felt bad for getting Draco into trouble, he laughed when others would have gotten angry and he could handle Draco. Draco’d never met anyone who was so effortlessly up to the task of handling him. They were going to be friends forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Lucius says "Jason? Common name," it's because in the movies Lucius is played by Jason Isaacs. It's an inside joke. Between me and my character.  
> it's not funny when i have to explain it


	2. The Kids Who Are Too Loud

‘Harry – ’

Draco’s parents let out an exasperated sigh.

‘– Potter,’ Draco continued, ‘defeated the Dark Lord twice without using a wand, did you know?’

He was slouching in their parlour’s bay window, watching the rain and trying not to die of boredom.

‘They say he killed the Dark Lord _and_ Professor Quill with his _bare hands_. Both of them at the same time.’

‘That is amazing, sweetie,’ said his mother absentmindedly.

Spread out on the coffee table was a large piece of parchment, on which she was trying to make a table arrangement for the Annual Sorority Summer event – or the ASS, as Father called it. Mother did not find that funny. Draco did.

‘I want to know how he did it,’ said Draco. ‘Pansy says it has to do with the Riddle of his Existence.’

His father looked up from the Daily Prophet. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Nobody knows how he killed the Dark Lord the first time, right? He should not have survived. That is the Riddle of his Existence. Pansy reckons he used the same mysterious power to kill the Dark Lord now as he used back then.’

His father squinted. ‘Right…’

'His father is Indonesian,' Draco said. 'Did you know? That is why everyone is always raving about his green eyes, you see. _The Boy Who Lived: A Biography of Harry Potter_ says genetics work differently in magical people, did you know that?'

'Yes, darling,' said his mother.

'Your mother is the only Black with blonde hair,' said Draco's father. 'Potter is nothing special.'

Draco's eyes widened. He never realized. 'Anyway,' he continued after a beat, 'did you know that Harry Potter was raised by Muggles?’

His parents always encouraged Draco to read about anything and everything that interested him. This summer he’d chosen _The Boy Who Lived: A Biography of Harry Potter_. It was the best book about Harry Potter written so far, and the one that coined the nickname. 

‘So really,’ Draco pressed ahead, ‘there is no _way_ he is better than _me_ at flying. So why did _he_ get a Nimbus Two Thousand while _I_ am not allowed to have one?’

His parents did not reply. Draco had asked this question before, but never received a satisfying answer.

‘I do not understand! Is it because he is _famous_? There cannot be another reason. He can never be as good as I am, when he is raised by _Muggles_.’

‘Draconius, please…’ His mother sighed.

‘Can I have a Nimbus Two Thousand?’ Draco asked for the umpteenth time.

‘We got you a Comet 290 last year. It is the best of the best.’

‘It is not,’ demanded Draco. ‘You know it is not.’

His father looked sternly at him over his newspaper. ‘It is the best of what we are willing to spend on a broomstick. It is the best for an eleven year-old who can only play with it in the two months he is home during the year. It is the best you are going to get, and we do not want to hear another word about it.’

‘But it is not _fair_!’

Draco’s father closed the newspaper and Draco backed away a little from the look on his face. His father leaned his arms on his knees to bore his eyes into Draco’s.

‘Life is not going to be fair,’ he told Draco. ‘Harry J. Potter will always receive more attention than you, simply because by some twisted stroke of luck he accidentally defeated the Dark Lord as a baby. This has nothing to do with his skills. You could have done it, but the stars were not aligned that way. Your mother and I cannot change this. It is something you are going to have to accept: you will never receive ludicrous presents from strangers; you will never be simply forgiven for breaking rules – but you do still have us. You are not average, Draco, not with our financial situation and our bloodline backing you up – but…’ He glanced at Draco’s mother. ‘I am sad to tell you that we are not unanimously adored – or even liked – in the way Harry J. Potter is. Some people cannot get past our history or our good fortunes.’

Draco scowled. ‘What history and good fortunes?’

Father sat up straight again. ‘We have done very well for ourselves in the past, especially in the Golden Days, when the Dark Lord reigned. Wealth and pure blood have always made people jealous. That is why the right connections are important. It is the reason we surround ourselves with likeminded people.’

Still sulking, Draco sank down in the windowsill, putting his feet up in the air. ‘I want a Nimbus Two Thousand like Harry Potter.’

‘Finally make us proud at school this year,’ said his father. ‘Then we may discuss it.’

. . .

The entire Manor shook when Draco’s father slammed the front door behind him. The antique dinner set on display in the parlour tingled in their cabinet.

‘This is not to be borne!’ Father shouted.

‘In here,’ called Draco’s mother. She barely raised her voice, but Draco’s father heard anyway.

He came thundering into the parlour, making Draco’s tea spoon rattle on the saucer.

‘You would not believe the stunt that blood traitor pulled this time!’

‘Tell me everything,’ said Mother, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

‘A law! A Muggle Protection law! As if Muggles need protection! As if they were not perfectly capable of slaughtering half our bloodline as it is! As if their filthy existence deserves protection! It is a fraud, a thinly veiled ruse to get into the homes of us dark wizards! If this law gets accepted, that flea-bag Weasley will finally have a legal excuse to search our home! Under the guise of searching for dark artefacts! _Even_ if we never plan to use them, even if they have no clue what they are or how to use them, they can take our belongings, our family heirlooms, our beautiful, sacred, ancient – ’

He was breathing heavily, too distraught to express himself coherently.

Mother was standing next to him now, using her handkerchief to dab Father’s forehead. ‘Scandalous,’ she muttered. ‘Look at you, all upset. How dare they…’

‘Our _home_ , Narcissa. They will invade our personal space!’ He banged his walking stick on the wooden floor. ‘We are a long way from the Golden Days, are we not?’

Solemnly, Draco’s mother nodded.

‘And furthermore!’ Father flared up. ‘If _anyone_ misuses Muggle Artefacts it is that worthless _morceau de merde_ Weasley himself! Ooh, _ça me fais chier_!’

‘Not in front of Draco,’ whispered Mother.

It was as if his father only now realized Draco was in the room with them. He pointed at the door. ‘Out. Go entertain yourself elsewhere.’

‘But –’

His mother shot him one of her most terrifying looks. Someone once said she descended from Medusa. In moments like these, it did not seem farfetched.

Draco stomped up the Grand Staircase and quietly sneaked back to the parlour again to listen at the door.

‘I refuse–…!’

‘Come now, moonbeam, what use are they to us lying in the attic, gathering dust?’

‘It is a matter of principle!’

‘We can at least look through some of it, see if we can sell what we have no use for. It will be catching three birds with one stone: we free space, make money and dispose of incriminating artefacts. We can at least take a look, can we not? Gives us a reason to finally tidy the attic; it’s been a thorn in my eye.’

Draco’s father was quiet for a while, then he started softly sweettalking Draco’s mother in French. When Mother started to giggle, Draco quickly took off to entertain himself elsewhere.

. . .

‘Psst.’

Draco jumped and looked around, but the large mudroom was quiet. Quiet and dark, with the only light coming in through the small rain-drenched window in the backdoor; a faint beam of light peeking through the dark clouds outside.

Draco went on cleaning his boots, after a walk that turned out rather rainier than foreseen.

‘Draco has a Selkie nose…’ The sing-song voice of a little girl resounded between the moss-green tiles of the small room.

Draco tried not to smile. Instead he faked anger, stomping his feet. ‘I do not have a Selkie nose, take that back.’ He was careful to keep quiet though, hissing those words instead of shouting them.

The ghost of his five-year old great grandaunt was very shy and easily scared. She only ever dared to show herself to children. The older Draco got, the less he saw of her, so he cherished the moments she did still show herself to him.

He heard her giggles moving through the walls. He pretended to focus on his boots again. After a few seconds, though, he sang, ‘Noelle has a Snorkack nose.’

And there she was, shooting out of the hallstand with a curious face and a giggle on her tongue. ‘A Snorkack? What’s a Snorkack?’

‘You don’t know what a Snorkack is?’ Draco jeered. ‘I thought everybody knew.’

She scowled. ‘Well, I _know_ what it is, of course,’ she said, her proud Malfoy-face in the air.

‘Well, then you know you have a nose just like them.’

She touched her nose. He wished he could boop it.

Her eyes started twinkling. ‘I think _you_ have a Snorkack nose.’

Draco raised his chin. ‘Why, thank you.’

It stunned her for a second and Draco grinned.

She flew closer to him, twisting her little fists into her dress skirt and whispering, ‘D’you want to play hopscotch?’

Draco scowled. ‘You always beat me.’

‘Because I am better!’

‘You can float,’ said Draco over her laughter, ‘and that is not fair!’

She hung sideways in the air with the giggles, only inches away now, and Draco remembered her frilly dress and the rash covering every bit of her skin like he’d seen her only yesterday. It felt weird to remember being the same age as her. They’d been the same height back then. They’d enjoyed the same games once. They’d shared jokes.

‘Lucius –’ Noelle started, and Draco felt an irrational jab of hurt.

‘I am Draco.’

She blinked in confusion, but quickly recovered, as if his name didn’t matter. ‘Will you read to me?’

He smirked. ‘Well, I cannot simply start reading for ghosts, you know, or they will all want me to.’

‘Oh, please?’

‘Ah, there is the magic word… Well, what would you like to hear?’

‘Peter Pan,’ she whispered. ‘Please?’

‘Alright fine… It is in my room, though, so I’ll read it to you there. Now, give me a second to finish this, alright?’ He quickly brushed the last of the mud off his shoes. ‘And tell me something funny. You know, did you do anything exciting lately?’

‘Draco, darling, who are you talking to?’ Draco’s mother’s loud heels clattered on the parquet of the conservatory next to the mudroom, and even if she’d worn fluffy socks, her sharp question would’ve echoed all through the Manor.

Draco looked around. Noelle had vanished. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

Mother huffed when he answered her question. She didn’t like it when he mentioned Noelle, because she had never once seen her. The only reason she hadn’t send Draco to a Mind Healer years ago, was because Father faintly remembered the girl from his own childhood and could vouch for her see-through existence. He had grown up so fast, though, that he’d last seen her when he took off to Hogwarts.

That night, when Draco walked to his room, he loudly shouted Noelle’s name through the Manor. ‘Going to my room now! You know, in case anyone wants to hear Peter Pan! I’m going to read it out loud in my room, you see!’

‘Draco!’ snapped his father from the Entrance Hall. ‘Be quiet!’

Draco waved in acknowledgement without looking around, and kept softly calling Noelle’s name all the way up to his rooms. When he reached it, it wasn’t the small figure of his great grandaunt greeting him, though, but his stout Uncle Barney.

‘Dost mine ears deceive me? Is my favourite heir taking requests?’

‘Good evening, Uncle Barnaby,’ Draco drawled, feeling a little too tired to deal with his happy-go-lucky ancestor.

Barney removed his hat with a flourish. ‘Good evening, young master Draco. Can I request –’

‘No.’

‘Ooh, hear an old man out! What is left for me in this pearly half-life were it not for the scarce company of my favourite grandson? I have longed to hear your sweet voice all through this past, empty year. The least you can do is give your old man a chance.’

Draco shot him a tired look. ‘Why, what would you like to hear then, Uncle Barnaby?’

Barney’s face lit up. ‘It’s called: _Prisoner of My Desire_.’

‘Yugh! Go away, old pervert. I am twelve.’

Barney barked a laugh. ‘Careful, young man! Do not take that tone with me, or I will have a word with your father.’

Draco snorted and Barney giggled. He would never. 

Noelle didn’t show herself that night, but Draco was somehow certain she was listening while he flipped through the chapters. Uncle Barney made himself comfortable, lounging in mid-air like there was an invisible hammock hanging from the high, decorated ceiling.

Draco started at his favourite part of the book while pacing around the room.

‘As soon as the door of 27 closed on Mr. and Mrs. Darling, there was a commotion in the firmament, and the smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way screamed out…’ Draco heaved an enormous breathe, held it for a while to add suspense and then frantically hissed: ‘Now, Peter!’

And if Draco had listened very carefully, he could have heard a soft whisper, right then, in the form of a little girl’s voice, excitedly echoing his words. ‘Now Peter!’

. . .

A bell clanged when Draco and his father stepped into Borgin and Burkes, a large, dimly-lit wizard’s shop. nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.

A glass case held a withered hand on a cushion, a blood stained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil- looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling.

Father crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning and saying, ‘Touch nothing, Draco.’

Draco, who had reached for the glass eye, said, ‘I thought you were going to buy me a present.’

‘I said I would buy you a racing broom,’ said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

It had taken Draco weeks, but finally he had cracked his father's resistance against a new broom. Immediately after though, Draco realised getting a new broom wouldn't solve anything.

‘What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?’ he said, still feeling sulky and bad-tempered. ‘Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s famous… famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead… ’ He bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. ‘Everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick – ’

‘You have told me this at least a dozen times already,’ said his father with a quelling look. ‘And I would remind you that it is not – prudent – to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear – Ah, Mr. Borgin.’

As if Draco didn’t know that. It wasn’t Harry he was less than fond of, it was those sodding teachers.

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face. ‘Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,’ said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. ‘Delighted — and young Master Malfoy, too — charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced –’

‘I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling.’

‘Selling?’ The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face.

‘You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,’ said Draco’s father, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unravelling it for Mr. Borgin to read. ‘I have a few – ah – items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…’

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.

‘The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?’

Father’s lip curled. ‘I have not been visited yet. The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumours about a new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it — and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear – ’

‘I understand, sir, of course,’ said Mr. Borgin. ‘Let me see…’

‘Can I have that?’ Draco interrupted his dad, pointing at a withered hand on a cushion.

‘Ah, the Hand of Glory!’ said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy and scurrying over to Draco. ‘Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.’

Draco proudly looked at his father, but his father did not return the look.

‘I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,’ he said coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, ‘No offense, sir, no offense meant – ’

‘Though if his grades don’t pick up that may indeed be all he is fit for – ’

‘It’s not my fault,’ retorted Draco. ‘The teachers all have favourites. That Hermione Granger – ’

‘I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam,’ snapped his father.

Draco felt abashed and angry. His father had been in a bad mood ever since word of the Muggle Protection Act came out, and he was the kind of person to take his anger out on others. The House Elves got the worst of it, but Draco came soon after those. It was no use arguing when he was like this, said Mother, and Draco should just be a little nicer to him than usual. It was very difficult. 

‘It’s the same all over,’ said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. ‘Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere –’

‘Not with me,’ said Mr. Malfoy, his long nostrils flaring.

‘No, sir, nor with me, sir,’ said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow.

‘In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,’ said Mr. Malfoy shortly. ‘I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today –’

They started to haggle. Draco entertained himself by examining the objects for sale. He paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, “Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.”

Served them well, Draco reckoned. Greedy bastards; touching Magical item with their filthy, powerless fingers.

He turned away and saw a dark cabinet. It looked perfectly ordinary, a little boring even, but Draco felt a hint of Magic oozing from it. Father said not to touch anything, but Draco itched to look inside.

‘Done,’ said his father at the counter. ‘Come, Draco – ’

Quickly, Draco pulled back his hand, turning around to his father with his most innocent look on his face.

‘Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the Manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.’

When they walked out, father said, ‘I told you not to touch anything. What did you do?’

‘I didn’t touch anything!’

‘Hm – Serves you well if you got hexed; not minding your father, and giving in to your insufferable curiosity.’

Draco wanted to shout something mean back at him, and it took every bit of his self-restraint not to.

Next, Draco and his father headed for Flourish and Blotts, and were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows: “GILDEROY LOCKHART will be signing copies of his autobiography.”

When they finally managed to make their way in, Draco saw Harry Potter standing in the middle of the shop, looking highly uncomfortable. A man wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes was holding him while smiling broadly at a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash. The smiling man’s pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

Within seconds, Draco lost count on all the things he hated about this person.

Gilderoy Lockhart – as it turned out to be – even made a speech about how happy Potter was going to be, because apparently this lunatic was going to teach at Hogwarts.

The crowd cheered and clapped and Potter found himself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where a Weasley-girl was standing next to a cauldron.

Escaping his father in the chaos, Draco elbowed his way towards Harry.

‘Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?’ he sneered as soon as he was within earshot.

Harry whirled around and his face brightened up. ‘Hey, Dra.’ It sounded like a sigh.

‘Famous Harry Potter,’ said Draco, slouching against a bookcase. ‘Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.’

An uncharacteristically smug smirk appeared on Harry’s face. ‘You know how it is…’ Then he leaned next to Draco against the bookcase and just softly gazed at him. It threw Draco off completely.

‘Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!’ said the Weasley-girl, still standing next to the cauldron.

It made Harry jump to his feet. The girl was glaring at Draco like she had the monopoly on Potter. It appeared all the Weasleys were as possessive of the Boy Who Lived as the Monkey-Weasley was.

‘Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!’ drawled Draco.

The girl went scarlet.

They’d lost Potter’s attention; the Mudblood and the Monkey-Weasley fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart’s books.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Weasley, looking at Draco as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. ‘Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?’

‘Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,’ retorted Draco. ‘I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.’

‘Dra…’ Harry touched his sleeve. ‘Don’t.’

Weasley went as red as the girl had. He dropped his books into the cauldron too, and started toward Draco, but Granger grabbed the back of his jacket, and Harry stepped between them – protecting Draco, who immediately took advantage of it to make rude gestures at the Monkey-Weasley.

‘Ron, stop, he’s just messing.’

‘Ron!’ said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with even more ginger children. ‘What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.’

‘Well, well, well – Arthur Weasley.’

Father was suddenly towering over Draco with his hand on Draco’s shoulder.

‘Lucius,’ said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

‘Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,’ said Father. ‘All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?’

He reached into the Weasley girl’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.

‘Obviously not,’ Father said.

Draco snorted as his father shared a look with him.

‘Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?’

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either of the Weasley children. ‘We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizards, Malfoy,’ he said.

‘Clearly,’ Father said, his pale eyes straying to two obvious muggles who greatly resembled the Mudblood. ‘The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower.’

There was a thud of metal as the cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Draco’s father, knocking him backward into a book shelf. Draco gasped as dozens of heavy spell books came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, ‘Get him, Dad!’ from the Weasley children; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking.

‘What’s happening?’ Harry mumbled.

It was Harry’s sleepy voice that snapped Draco back into the reality of what was happening. His father – his cool, calm, collected father – was rolling on the floor… with a bleeding Weasley of all people.

His face felt hot, but Draco refused to admit defeat. ‘Now you see it with your own eyes, Potter: the bad influence of the Weasleys. My father would normally never do this.’

Draco started to doubt his own words when he saw his father effortlessly wield his walking stick like a weapon to smack Mr Weasley around with it, then kicking him in one fell swoop like he fought people every Tuesday. It looked like a seasoned exercise. 

The crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over.

‘Gentlemen, please – please!’ cried the assistant, and then, louder than all –

‘Break it up, there, gents, break it up – ’

No less than Hogwarts’ Gamekeeper was wading towards them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Draco’s father apart.

Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Father had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools.

Draco covered his face with one hand, sharing a horrified look with Harry.

His father was still holding the Weasley girl’s old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice. ‘Here, girl – take your book – it’s the best your father can give you – ’ Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

Draco had no choice. His father was almost twice Draco’s size and his anger made him strong enough to push Draco out of the shop with or without his consent.

From behind his dad’s back, Draco sneaked a last peek to see Harry looking exhausted in the midst of a sea of ginger hair.

If only the Malfoys could have snatched him up before the Weasleys did. It would have made a world of chance.

‘Do you see now, dad?’ Draco was having trouble to keep up with his father’s angry pace. ‘Do you see what riffraff I have to deal with at school!’

His father scoffed. ‘Riffraff,’ he agreed.

Draco knew to forge the iron when it was hot, and seeing the glint in his father’s eyes, he knew for sure the iron was hot.

‘The Weasleys are all on the Quidditch team,’ Draco said loudly, stretching the truth slightly in his advantage. ‘I’m sure Slytherin could beat them easily if I were on the Quidditch team too! They are acting as if I’m a second-year student like any other – like that Weasley-scum! They lump me together with the trash, dad!’ 

His father huffed aggressively. ‘I will personally see to it that you get into that Quidditch team, Draconius. Let them feel which family rules the roost…’

Draco rubbed his hands together in malicious excitement. This year was off to a promising start.

. . .

‘I don’t understand,’ Draco muttered, pacing through the train for the third time. ‘How can he… How can they not be here?’

Halfway along the train, Crabbe, Goyle and Draco stopped. Draco scratched his head. ‘There’s nowhere to hide, right?’

Goyle looked around as if searching for some good hiding spots. There weren’t any.

Crabbe just shrugged. ‘I’m hungry, Malfoy,’ he grumbled.

‘Shut up,’ said Draco. He felt like stomping his feet.

Potter and Weasley weren’t on the Hogwarts Express.

‘Did they miss the train?’ he wondered out loud.

More head scratching.

‘How can all the Weasleys have caught the train except for one?’

Lots of head-scratching going on.

‘It doesn’t make sense!’

‘Suffer from lice, Malfoy?’ said a jeering voice.

Whirling around, they saw the Weasley twins.

‘Suffer from brain damage?' Draco snapped. 'You can’t even keep track of all your siblings, there’s _that_ many of them. It’s embarrassing.’

‘What are you talking about?’ said one of the twins.

‘Prat,’ added the second.

Draco gestured vaguely, shoved past Gregory and went to Pansy to make a formal complaint.

. . .

Potter and Weasley were still missing when they arrived at the castle. They weren’t present at the Sorting Ceremony, nor at the feast.

‘Weasley would never miss his sister getting sorted,’ muttered Draco at Gregory. ‘Look at the other ones, they’re all over her. Pathetic. They’re like a – ’

‘– family?’ offered Gregory.

‘– Hydra,’ said Draco.

‘I bet Matilda would be in Slytherin too.’

Draco rolled his eyes. 'Can you shut up about your stupid sister already?'

'He mentioned her once,' said Vincent.

'Once too often.'

‘Malfoy!’ Pansy shrieked during the feast. ‘Look at this!’ And she threw a newspaper in his face.

Her entire gang of Slytherin girls laughed at his startled face. Backing away, he saw the cover of the Evening Prophet.

“FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES.”

He began to read, muttering, ‘“Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower… At noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing… Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police…” The what?’

‘It’s the Weasleys’ car,’ Pansy shrieked. ‘Daphne says!’

Daphne Greengrass nodded proudly. ‘My father – ’

Draco could give a rat’s arse about Daphne Greengrass’s miserable father. ‘Pansy, what are you implying here exactly?’

‘IT’S POTTER!’ she roared, jumping up. Quickly, she sat down again, and, stroking her school robes, she cleared her throat and calmly declared, ‘Well, we reckon it’s your famous buddy Harry J. Potter.’

Draco couldn’t contain a smirk. ‘Miss Parkinson, you are obsessed.’

‘Did you hear?’ Adrian Pucey sat down at their table, looking excited. ‘Lee Jordan’s saying a car flew into the Whomping Willow!’

Pansy looked theatrically at Draco, “told you so” clearly written across her face. He glared back.

‘A Ford Anglia, by any chance?’ asked Daphne sweetly.

‘Yes!’ said Adrian. ‘How d’you know?’

‘Oh, I’m very good with cars.’

'She can sense their year of manufacture,' said Imogen Stretton, 'with an accuracy of six percent!'

Before Pansy could throw Adrian the newspaper, Tracey Davis snatched it from her, grabbing the excuse to squeeze herself between him and Peregrine Derrick. ‘I can read it to you, if you want.’

‘Er…’ Adrian inched away from her. ‘That’s okay. I can read.’

Half the table was muffling their laughter.

‘I can read hands, too,’ said Tracey, seizing poor Adrian’s hand, who quickly yanked it away and made an escape to the Gryffindor table.

‘Thanks a lot, girl, you lost me my paper,’ grumbled Pansy at a pouting Tracey. ‘Perfectly good newspaper…’

Tracey bolted upright. ‘Want me to get it back?’

All the while, there was no sign of Potter. Those moronic Gryffindors were acting like it was great fun that Potter might have crashed into the Whomping Willow, but to Draco... it didn’t sound safe.

‘Draconius Malfonius,’ said Pansy from across the table. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Nothing,’ he scoffed, quickly shoving some food in his mouth.

‘He’s worrying,’ Daphne teased in her sing-song voice, ‘about his celebrity.’

Before Draco could retaliate, Tracey solemnly shook her head. ‘Trust me, Draco, I know the feeling… They’re friendly once and you’re lost forever.’ She sighed dramatically and leaned her head on Pansy's shoulder. ‘Don’t ever let a boy smile at you.’

. . .

‘Oh look, Malfoy,’ said Gregory the next morning. ‘Not dead.’

Indeed, Draco noticed, following his gaze; Potter and Weasley were wolfing down their breakfast like any other day.

‘Too bad,’ grumbled Draco, shooting Weasley a withering look.

. . .

Being in second year meant a fresh load of younger students – and a fresh new load of admirers of The Boy Who Lived.

One of them was the youngest Weasley girl; Draco noticed her eyeing Harry every chance she got. Another one was a scrawny looking, mousy-haired Mudblood boy who kept walking around with a Muggle camera, looking at Harry like he personally saved the kid from a fire. He wished!

One day after lunch, Draco strolled outside into the overcast courtyard with Gregory and Vincent, to find the first-year boy talking to Harry.

‘You’re joking,’ Draco said to Gregory and Vincent. ‘Look at that filthy Mudblood, how dare he?’

The kid was standing at a distance while talking, as if he was scared to come any closer to The Boy Who Lived –

Glad he knew his place, Draco thought.

‘Maybe your friend could take it,’ they heard the child stammer, ‘and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?’

The stunned look on Harry’s face was golden. Now _that_ Draco would’ve liked a picture of.

‘Signed photos?’ Draco yelled scathingly across the echoing courtyard. ‘You’re giving out signed photos, Potter?’

Harry groaned and seemed eager to run away.

‘Everyone line up!’ Draco roared to the crowd. ‘Harry Potter’s giving out signed photos!’

Harry slammed down Draco’s arms, but a light appeared in his eyes. ‘Shut up, Dra!’

‘You’re just jealous,’ piped up the child, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe’s neck.

‘Jealous?’ said Draco, who didn’t need to shout anymore: half the courtyard was listening in. ‘Of what? I don’t want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don’t think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself.’

‘Eat slugs, Draco,’ said Weasley angrily.

Vincent stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.

‘Be careful, Weasley,’ sneered Draco. ‘You don’t want to start any trouble or your Mummy’ll have to come and take you away from school.’ He put on a shrill, piercing voice. ‘”If you put another toe out of line”–’

A knot of Slytherin fifth-years nearby laughed loudly at this. Draco thought he couldn’t feel more proud, until he noticed Harry was laughing too.

Weasley on the other hand, was looking at Potter as if he traded his entire family for a Cauldron Cake, and Harry quickly stopped laughing.

‘Sorry,’ he heard Potter whisper to Weasley, shuffling his feet in remorse. ‘It sounded like her… I’m sorry.’

Gryffindors really were no fun, Draco thought.

‘Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter,’ he jeered. ‘It’d be worth more than his family’s whole house – ’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ shouted Potter as Weasley whipped out a Spellotaped wand.

That moment, Granger interrupted the fun, whispering, ‘Look out!’

‘What’s all this, what’s all this?’ Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. ‘Who’s giving out signed photos?’

Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, ‘Shouldn’t have asked! We meet again, Harry!’

Treasuring the imagine of Potter pinned to Lockhart’s side, Draco slid back into the crowd.

. . .

The letter arrived in the week of the Quidditch try-outs:

_‘Draco,_

_How are your lessons going? Your mother and I expect you are working hard._

_The other day, me and your Head of House had a very pleasant conversation. We both agreed that it had been far too long since the Slytherin team had a victory to celebrate, and we spoke about the effect this has on House moral. Together, we went to take a look at the state of the Slytherin Quidditch material, and I dare say it looked abysmal. I cannot believe they allow pureblood students anywhere near those_ déclassé _broomsticks._

_A generous spirit hit me, and in consultation with your mother, we decided to make a little investment in the Slytherin House Team._

_We informed the Slytherin Team Captain of this, and the boy reacted enthusiastically. Young Master Flint strikes me as an agreeable young man and an enjoyable conversationalist; considering his age and bloodline of course (certainly no Malfoy, if you get my drift)._

_The three of us – Master Flint, Mister Snape and yours truly – got to talking about you, Dragonchild, and your excitement on the subject of Quidditch. I told them how you have been flying since you were yay-high, and could not wait to join the Slytherin Team. When I expressed my disappointment about the rules regarding first and second-year broom usage, Snape agreed that it is such a shame to miss out on young talent this way._

_Together with the Team Captain we decided that it would not be unbecoming to bend the rules somewhat, especially after the generous gift your mother and I presented the team with._

_All in all, it was a wonderful afternoon._

_Now, I would like to invite you to take a look inside the material room; you will find your name engraved on some of the new equipment. What is more, Master Flint promised me he would invite you for the Quidditch try-outs this week. Severus Snape is excited to welcome you on the team, provided you fly well of course._

_I know you will not disappoint us._

_Love,_

_Your father.’_

Smirking, Draco handed the letter to Pansy, standing tall as she read it. She started laughing and laughing.

‘Only natural,’ Draco said, chin up.

His insides were screaming and screaming and screaming. He wanted to run around and paint the town.

Instead, he kept his composure and went to check out the new equipment. This was the best day of his life!

. . .

Draco did not disappoint his father at the Slytherin try-outs. He flew better than any of the older students trying for the position of Seeker. It was really no question who should be selected. Draco had all the qualities they were looking for: he was swift, experienced, and he had perfect vision.

At his first Quidditch practice, he arrived almost an hour too early in excitement. He used the time to practice looking like he belonged there; to explore every inch of the field and the sky surrounding it, so he could pretend to be _laissez-faire_ when the training started.

Halfway through their practice, the Gryffindor team walked onto the field.

‘I booked the field!’ said their Team Captain, Oliver Wood, positively spitting with rage. ‘I booked it!’

‘Ah,’ said Flint. ‘But I’ve got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. “I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker”.’

‘You’ve got a new Seeker?’ said Wood, distracted. ‘Where?’

The six large figures before him stepped aside to reveal Draco; like he was the stripper locked in a cake.

The first Gryffindor’s reaction Draco spotted was not Oliver Wood’s, but Harry Potter’s, who seemed barely able to hold his laughter. When their eyes met, Harry picked up his chin defiantly, grabbing his broom as if he was keen on taking off straight away to play against Draco.

Confident-Harry was Draco’s favourite Harry, Draco decided. He wished they could play against each other right now. He would love to beat The Boy Who Lived.

‘Aren’t you Lucius Malfoy’s son?’ said the Weasley twins, looking at Draco with dislike.

‘Funny you should mention Draco’s father,’ said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. ‘Let me show you the generous gift he’s made to the Slytherin team.’

All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors’ noses in the early morning sun.

‘Very latest model. Only came out last month,’ said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. ‘I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount. As for the old Clean sweeps’ – he smiled nastily at the Weasley twins, who were both clutching Clean sweep Fives – ‘sweeps the board with them.’

None of the Gryffindor team could think of anything to say for a moment. Draco was smirking so broadly his face hurt. He saw Potter inching in his direction, watching their new brooms the way Ollivander would examine a wand.

‘Oh, look,’ said Flint. ‘A field invasion.’

Weasley and Granger were crossing the grass to see what was going on. It was like they would die if they were apart from Potter for more than a few seconds.

‘What’s happening?’ Weasley asked Harry. ‘Why aren’t you playing? And what’s he doing here?’

He was looking at Draco, taking in his Slytherin Quidditch robes, which Draco knew he looked good in.

‘I’m the new Slytherin Seeker, Weasley,’ said Draco, proudly. ‘Everyone’s just been admiring the brooms my father’s bought our team.’

Weasley gaped, open-mouthed, at the seven superb broom sticks in front of him.

‘Good, aren’t they?’ said Draco. ‘But perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and get new brooms, too. You could raffle off those Clean sweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them.’

The Slytherin team howled with laughter.

‘At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in,’ said the Mudblood sharply. ‘They got in on pure talent.’

‘No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood,’ Draco spat.

To his astonishment there was an instant uproar at his words. Flint had to dive in front of him to stop the Weasley twins jumping on him; another Gryffindor shrieked, ‘How dare you!’ and Weasley plunged his hand into his robes, pulled out his wand, yelling, ‘You’ll pay for that one, Malfoy!’ and pointed it furiously under Flint’s arm at Draco’s face.

Draco whimpered when a loud bang echoed around the stadium – but the jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Weasley’s wand, hitting himself in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass.

‘Ron! Ron! Are you all right?’ squealed Granger.

Weasley opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.

The whole Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Draco laughed so hard his knees couldn’t hold him anymore; he was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist, while the Gryffindors were gathered around Weasley, who kept belching large, glistening slugs. Nobody seemed to want to touch him.

Sadly, Potter disappeared out of sight to take care of Weasley. Things quickly became boring again after that.

. . .

Draco was walking back to class with Vincent and Gregory after lunch, when he bumped into the people walking in front of him. Everyone had stopped dead in their tracks in the middle of the corridor.

‘What’s going on?’ he inquired loudly, but nobody answered, so he had to elbow his way to the front of the crowd.

Of course, there was Potter, with his nasty friends. They were staring at the wall, as was the crowd around them.

Hanging from the ceiling was Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat, stoned. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall behind it, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

Draco stepped forward to join Harry. ‘Enemies of the Heir, beware!’ he read aloud for the people at the back. 

How exciting! Draco wasn’t sorry at all to see the cat go. Filch was vicious and his cat was a traitor. And as for the enemies of the heir…

‘You’ll be next, Mudbloods!’ 

‘Tone it down,’ Harry told him.

Draco ignored him. ‘Is it written in _blood_?’

Harry slammed Draco’s hand down when he wanted to touch the letters on the wall.

‘Dear me, Harry, what did you _do_?’ Draco whispered, smirking.

Dumbledore arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, the Headmaster had swept past Potter, Weasley, Granger and Draco and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

‘Come with me, Argus,’ he said to Filch. ‘You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy.’

As if any of them had something to do with the stoned cat and the blood on the wall. Potter and his friends were clearly far too honourable to have done it, and Draco hadn’t even been near the spot all day.

. . .

As soon as he swaggered back into his dorm to duplicate some more of Jason the Mudblood’s music, Pansy was there, sitting on his bed to welcome him with another one of her livid speeches. Even Nimbostratus backed her up this time, with some well-timed meows.

‘It’s discrimination is what it is!’ she roared. ‘Just because you happened to be standing there doesn’t mean you had anything to do with it! It doesn’t prove anything! They picked you out of that crowd because of your family’s history, clear as day! Disgusting, they are all still haunted by that war!’

Draco shook his fist. ‘Darn that war!’

Sniggering, he quickly looked through the cabinet filled with cassettes next to Jason’s bed. The best ones were never in there, he knew. Jason hid the good stuff under his pillow.

‘Only because you can’t stay away from The Boy Who Lived doesn’t mean you’ve got anything to do with his bad luck! Heed my advice, Draconius: you should steer well clear of that miserable Harry J. Potter! I’m telling you up front so you can’t say I didn’t warn you: that boy oozes bad luck.’

Draco sucked on his teeth, looking up from a haunting cover of an album he found under Jason’s pillow, called Disintegration by The Cure. ‘Harry doesn’t ooze anything, woman.’

As she pulled Nimbostratus on her lap, Pansy wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Tell that to Romilda Vane.’

‘Horrid name.’

‘Romilda says Potter oozes Powerful Magic… amongst other things.’ Pansy’s eyes glistened with joy. She lived for gossip. ‘She’s got the wildest theory about his hair, you wouldn’t believe it.’

‘Tell me,’ breathed Draco. Noticing he was leaning eagerly on the foot of the bed, he quickly went back to Jason’s cassettes, turning a few of them over and over in his hands without seeing anything. ‘Harry’s hair? What of it?’ It didn’t matter to Draco; why would anyone think it would be interesting to him? ‘Does it have Magic? I bet it has, I hear it sometimes.’ He carelessly looked round at the squid swimming past the dormitory, flicking his hair from his face in a bored kind of way. ‘Not that I care,’ he added for good measure.

Pansy snorted. ‘Right…’ She raised her hands to emphasize the drama, and whispered, ‘His hair grows _back_.’

‘Usually does though, doesn’t it,’ Draco sneered.

‘Overnight,’ she added. ‘If you shave it all off, the whole messy lot’s back in the morning. Drove his aunt to insanity, apparently.’

Without noticing, Draco had dropped the cassettes on the bed. He knew it! Harry’s hair really had a mind of its own!

‘But what did you say?’ Pansy frowned. ‘You can _hear_ it?’

Draco flushed. ‘No.’

Pansy shot him a stern look.

Glancing around to check if they were really still alone, Draco swaggered over to plop down next to her. ‘Fine, you see, it crackles when he smiles.’

Pansy smirked. ‘No it doesn’t.’

‘Well, not when he _faux_ -smiles at _Rotilda_ ,’ he sneered.

‘Romilda,’ Pansy muttered, thinking hard. ‘Ooh…! You think it has to do with… How did you say it?’

‘The Riddle of his Existence,’ Draco said matter-of-factly. ‘And yes, I am certain.’

‘That proves it then!’ She jumped up; Nimbostratus complained loudly. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to tell the girls!’

Draco blinked at the door she just stormed out of. Tell the girls what? What did it prove?

Pansy was and remained a peculiar lady. 

. . .

Finally the day arrived that Draco Malfoy got the chance to beat Harry Potter at Quidditch.

‘On my whistle,’ said Madam Hooch. ‘Three… two… one… ’

With a roar from the crowd to speed them upward, the fourteen players rose toward the leaden sky. Squinting around for the Snitch, Draco flew higher than any of them, except for Potter.

‘All right there, Scarhead?’ yelled Draco, shooting underneath him to show off the speed of his new broom. It outperformed Potter’s backdated one on every level.

At that very moment, a heavy black Bludger came pelting toward Harry; he avoided it so narrowly that his hair ruffled as it passed.

One of the Weasleys streaked past Harry to knock the Bludger back in the direction of Adrian Pucey, but the Bludger changed direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again. Harry dropped quickly to avoid it, and George managed to hit it hard toward Draco.

Draco winced, but once again, the Bludger swerved like a boomerang and shot at Potter’s head.

Draco watched it, mystified. Bludgers never concentrated on one player like this; it was their job to try and unseat as many people as possible… 

Harry put on a burst of speed and zoomed toward the other end of the pitch. The Bludger whistled along behind him. Now, the Weasleys flew close to Harry to keep the Bludger at bay. By the looks of it, Potter had a heated discussion with them. Did he not like being guarded? Did he enjoy this opportunity to get his bones smashed in?

Harry shook off the Weasleys, but even as he did so, the Bludger barely missed him again; Harry turned right over and sped in the opposite direction. It was starting to look like slapstick.

‘Training for the ballet, Potter?’ yelled Draco as Harry was forced to do a stupid kind of twirl in midair to dodge the Bludger. As he fled, the Bludger trailed a few feet behind him.

Draco almost fell off his broom from laughing.

WHAM.

The Bludger had hit Potter, smashing into his elbow. His face contorted with pain and Draco flinched, seeing how Harry’s elbow bent in a weird shape.

Harry slid sideways on his rain-drenched broom, one knee still crooked over it, his right arm dangling useless at his side – and even now the Bludger came pelting back for a second attack, this time zooming at Potter’s face.

Harry swerved out of the way, but suddenly his eyes locked on Draco, who froze, startled. And then Potter was diving at him!

‘What the – ’ Draco gasped, careening out of Harry’s way.

Harry took his remaining hand off his broom and made a wild snatch – and only as he did, Draco saw the flash of gold, floating right next to his head. He’d been so busy following Harry’s comic act that he hadn’t even seen the Snitch when it flew next to his face.

As Harry’s fingers curled around the Snitch right in front of his face, Draco could do nothing but watch.

As soon as he caught the Snitch, Harry headed straight for the ground. His eyes looked weirdly hazy and he seemed to only grip the broom with his legs. There was a yell from the crowd as The Boy Who Lived hit the mud with a splattering thud. His arm was hanging at a very strange angle.

Madam Hooch whistled and the stadium exploded.

Gryffindor had won.

Draco didn’t dare look at his team mates. While their Wonderboy demanded everyone’s attention, Draco used the distraction to fly away. It was his first instinct, his natural reaction whenever something happened: flee. Get away as far as possible, as fast as he could.

He ended up at the other side of the castle, flying into the Eastern tower, which was cold and abandoned, at the brink of collapsing. 

Stepping off his broom, he felt like a coward. He paced up and down the tower, then along the round walls, his mind reeling with all the things people would be saying about him.

There was no way his life could ever get any worse than this.

Suddenly, he got annoyed with himself and with all those people he imagined talking behind his back. He grabbed his broom and flew back. Let them say it to his face.

He knew the Leg-Locker Curse. He had friends to back him up.

Attack was the best defence.

. . .

Flint yelled at Draco for a solid ten minutes. Drenched to the skin from standing in the rain, Draco listened to Flint going on and on about not seeing the Snitch when it bumped square into his face, when it was sitting on his head, when it flew right into his sleeve, when he snorted it like meth, etcetera, etcetera…

Draco’s mind drifted off. He wished he knew what happened to Potter’s arm. The Boy Who Lived had passed out and been brought to the Hospital Wing, but other than that Draco didn’t know a thing.

At last Vincent, Gregory, Pansy and his team mates started saving Draco.

‘He beat the Ravenclaw Seeker,’ Adrian Pucey reminded Flint. 'At our last game.'

‘He’s twice the Seeker Terence was,’ said Peregrine Derrick.

‘Terence was abysmal,’ spat Marcus.

‘ _You’re_ abysmal,’ snapped Gregory, that lovable dumbass.

Vincent gave Flint a great push and Pansy grabbed Draco’s arm to pull him away.

‘I’m not done with you, Malfoy!’ roared Marcus, shaking with anger.

Instantly, Pansy stepped close to the Captain, who was at least twice as broad as her and towered over her in length as well, but she picked up her chin and made her toes touch Flint’s. 

‘My mother told me all about you and your no-good family,’ she snarled at him. ‘You’re not worth my spit and you _dare_ talk to a Malfoy like that? Work on your anger issues, Flint, and maybe – just maybe – our families will allow you to stay Captain for a little longer. Now _back off_.’

Marcus stared at her, infuriated.

Pansy didn’t budge.

‘I SAID GO!’ she screamed at the top of her lungs. It came from way out of nowhere – Pansy could go from zero to a hundred in a split-second.

It startled Marcus, like it startled everyone. He gestured like he chased away a fly and stormed off.

Pansy whirled around, grabbing Draco’s arm in passing, and dragged them all off to the kitchen to get magically enhanced hot chocolate.

It warmed Draco up so well that it even dried his rain soaked robes. Pansy was shouting the entire time, but Draco hardly heard. The hot chocolate fogged his mind and calmed his muscles.

‘Oh, this is good,’ he whispered.

Pansy fell down between Crabbe and Goyle, who were sharing lasagna. She rubbed her thumb over Draco’s cheek to get some dirt off, then remembered she was a Witch and Scorgified him up a bit.

‘Merlin, I should _not_ have yelled,’ she said. ‘My mother will hear about this, she always does. It is not an attractive quality in a lady to make herself heard.’

Draco dreamily put on a soft, high pitched voice. ‘Not _winsome_ , darling.’

‘Don’t do that, it’s scary.’

Pansy and her mother had a difficult relationship, Draco never quite understood it. They were incredibly similar, and both were the black sheep of their family. Yet this didn’t strengthen their bond. On the contrary: it made Mrs. Parkinson harsher on Pansy than on her other children. She reprimanded her daughter for what she was about to say, before she could even say it, and she hated the way Pansy moved, the way she dressed, or the things she did. She always told Pansy: ‘If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it!’ To which Pansy would reply in her slowest drawl: ‘It is not a question of _ability_ , mother, it is a question of _desirability_.’

She ruffled through her hair like she was shaking out a Niffler. ‘Everybody hates me here. They say I’m hysterical.’

‘Who said that?’ asked Vincent. ‘I’ll beat them up.’

‘Some Hufflepuff Prefect, I’ll get his name for you. It’s always the ones you least expect it from… Becky Arncliffe started a rumour that I was in St. Mungo’s before I got here. And those _awful_ Patil sisters are telling everyone I’m part Banshee.’

Draco snorted. ‘That’s amazing. I wish I was part Banshee…’ He sighed softly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You’re such a mess over this Harry Potter character,’ she grumbled.

‘No, I'm not,' he snarled. 'It had nothing to do with him.'

Pansy huffed.

‘Is he alright?’ Draco asked.

‘No, he is not. He is bad news. A terrible influence, if you ask me.’

‘I meant his arm.’

Pansy waved his concerns away. ‘He’s fine. The entire world is there to take care of The Boy Who Lived – but you can bet the Manor that he does not spare one thought for The Kids Who Are Too Loud.’

Draco felt fuzzy. What had the House Elves put into this drink?

‘I’m happy for him,’ he whispered.

Pansy shot him a dark look. ‘This will end in tears,’ she said. ‘Mark my words.’

She glared at them all in a way that made Crabbe and Goyle stop eating to nod.

‘Marking it,’ promised Gregory.

. . .

Thursday afternoon’s Potions lesson proceeded in the usual way. Twenty cauldrons stood steaming between the wooden desks, on which stood brass scales and jars of ingredients. Snape prowled through the fumes, making waspish remarks about the Gryffindors’ work while the Slytherins sniggered.

Potions was Draco’s favourite class. He looked forward to it all week. His father suggested he’d join an extracurricular Potions class, but for some reason, that sounded like a bore to Draco. It wasn’t cool.

Draco’d pushed away Neville Longbottom to get the seat behind Harry Potter. Snape told them to work alone, in silence, today, so Draco fixed his potion up in half the time it took him when Harry slowed him down.

There was plenty of time left to watch Potter making error after error. Draco had to bite his tongue to stop him from warning the guy every single time. It was quite hilarious to watch the boy struggle. He was clueless in every classroom – or on the ground in general – but his performance in Potions truly took the cake.

Potter haphazardly cut a frog and flung it vaguely in the general direction of his cauldron, like a blind man. Wrinkles appeared in his nose when the potion turned a nasty shade of greenish brown – now how in the world could that _ever_ have happened?

Draco snorted and flicked a pufferfish eye at Weasley.

Potter might be making an entirely different potion, Draco thought. That was the only explanation he could come up with for his erratic behaviour.

Why didn’t Potter _ask_ him what to do? Draco was so _bored_.

 _Talk_ to me, he begged him in silence, flicking another pufferfish eye in their direction. Both Potter and Weasley flinched, but didn’t react.

Draco sighed, then aimed his pufferfish eye as best he could at Weasley’s face. It ended up hitting Weasley smack in his ear. Draco laughed triumphantly, and so did Vincent and Gregory.

Weasley turned a magnificent shade of scarlet, and Draco backed away when he made to whirl around, but then Harry quickly pushed his friend’s head down. ‘Don’t!’ Draco heard him hiss.

Harry turned to face Draco. ‘What do you want, Malfoy?’

Draco leaned his hand in his chin, smiling. ‘Attention.’ With his other hand he subtly pushed his finished potions nearer to Harry, who was failing to hide a smile, but didn’t even look at Draco’s flawlessly executed brews.

He probably wasn’t interested at all in Draco’s skills after Draco’d made such an arse of himself at the Quidditch match. Potter probably lost all respect for him.

‘You never call me Dra anymore,’ Draco heard himself blurt out.

Harry’s mouth fell open, but before Draco could even start to regret what he said, Goyle’s Potion exploded, showering the whole class. People shrieked as splashes of the Swelling Solution hit them. Draco got a face full and his nose began to swell like a balloon – right in front of Harry J. Potter.

Goyle blundered around, his hands over his eyes, which had expanded to the size of a dinnerplate.

‘Silence! SILENCE!’ Snape roared. ‘Anyone who has been splashed, come here for a Deflating Draft – when I find out who did this – ’

As Draco hurried forward, his head drooping with the weight of a nose like a small melon, he saw Potter laughing. The Boy Who Lived jumped up to yell over everyone’s head: ‘Fate’s a pig, Dra!’

It cost Gryffindor five points; then five more because Potter couldn’t stop laughing.

. . .

A week later, Vincent, Gregory and Draco were walking across the Entrance Hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the noticeboard, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. With an irritated face, Pansy’d turned her back to it, rolling her eyes almost out of her head at all the excited kids pushing each other to get a closer look.

Draco lifted his chin at her.

‘Dueling Club,’ she drawled. ‘Tonight.’

Draco snorted. ‘Great… Permission to kill.’

At eight o’clock that evening the Slytherin common room emptied out. To avoid the inevitable queue at the Entrance Hall, Draco, Vincent and Gregory went to the kitchen for a quick snack first. If nothing else, Draco’s apple could serve as a target on someone’s head to practice on.

When the three of them swaggered into the Great Hall, the long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

Draco searched the crowd and spotted The Boy Who Lived, huddled together with his obnoxious, little bodyguards. Vincent and Gregory followed as Draco elbowed his way over to him. 

Snape and Lockhart moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Neville with Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Draco caught Snape’s eye just when they reached Harry Potter. A malicious glimmer lit up in the Professor’s eyes.

‘Time to split up the dream team, I think,’ Snape sneered. ‘Weasley, you can partner Finnigan. Potter – ’

Harry moved automatically towards Granger.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Snape, smiling coldly.

Draco quickly put his hands in his pockets, and looked another way with his most bored face.

‘Mr. Malfoy,’ said Snape, ‘come over here. Let’s see what you make of the famous Potter.’

Draco strutted over, smirking.

Potter turned to face him, already lifting his wand and returning Malfoy’s smirk. Draco felt giddy with excitement.

‘Face your partners!’ called Lockhart, back on the platform. ‘And bow!’

Draco and Harry barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off each other.

‘Wands at the ready!’ shouted Lockhart . ‘When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents – only to disarm them – we don’t want any accidents – one… two – ’

Draco couldn’t contain himself, and cast his spell at two. Hurt flashed on Harry’s face as his head violently bopped forward.

‘Ha!’ shouted Draco triumphantly.

To his amazement, Potter only slightly stumbled – as though being hit with the force of a saucepan was child’s play to him.

‘Rictusempra!’ Harry shouted and a jet of silver light hit Draco in the stomach. He doubled up, wheezing.

‘I said disarm only!’ Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of the battling crowd, as Draco sank to his knees; Harry had hit him with a Tickling Charm, and he could barely move for laughing.

Gasping for breath, Draco pointed his wand at Harry’s knees, choked, ‘Tarantallegra!’ and the next second Harry’s legs began to jerk around out of his control in a kind of quick step.

He looked ridiculous, Draco’s laughing fit grew even worse. He could barely breathe.

‘Stop! Stop!’ screamed Lockhart, but Snape took charge.

‘Finite Incantatem!’ he shouted.

Harry’s feet stopped dancing and he doubled over, staggering towards Draco while he wheezed with laughter.

‘Let’s have a volunteer pair!’ yelled Lockhart. ‘Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley, how about you – ’

‘A bad idea, Professor Lockhart ,’ said Snape, gliding over like a large and malevolent bat. ‘How about Malfoy and Potter?’

Draco jumped up.

‘Excellent idea!’ said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Draco into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room.

‘Now, Harry,’ said Lockhart. ‘When Draco points his wand at you, you do this.’

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, ‘Whoops – my wand is a little overexcited – ’

Snape moved closer to Draco, bent down, and whispered, ‘Use Serpensortia. The one I showed on your father’s birthday.’

Draco smirked.

Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, ‘Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?’

‘Scared, Potter?’ muttered Draco, so that Lockhart couldn’t hear him.

‘You wish,’ said Harry out of the corner of his mouth. There was an excited light in his eyes.

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. ‘Just do what I did, Harry!’

‘What, drop my wand?’

Draco snorted.

Lockhart wasn’t listening. ‘Three – two – one – go!’ he shouted.

Draco raised his wand quickly and bellowed, ‘Serpensortia!’

The end of his wand exploded. He watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between them, and raised itself, ready to strike.

There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor. Draco glanced up at Snape, who was smirking. Draco relaxed.

‘Don’t move, Potter,’ said Snape lazily. ‘I’ll get rid of it…’

Harry was staring at the snake with an odd look on his face. It almost seemed like the snake and Potter were hypnotizing each other.

‘Allow me!’ shouted Lockhart.

He brandished his wand at the snake and there was a loud bang; the snake, instead of vanishing, flew ten feet into the air and fell back to the floor with a loud smack.

Enraged, hissing furiously, it slithered straight toward Justin Finch-Fletchley and raised itself again, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Draco jumped behind Snape, but Potter was moving closer to the snake with a strangely foggy look in his eyes. He seemed slightly possessed. A weird noise resounded through the Great Hall. It sounded like hissing, but instead of coming from the snake… it came from Harry Potter.

Was he imitating the snake?

The crowd gasped when the snake slumped to the floor, its eyes hooked on Harry like it awaited his further instructions.

‘ _C'est pas vrai..._ ’ Draco muttered.

Had Harry talked to the snake? Was Harry Potter a Parselmouth?!

The Great Hall buzzed with an ominous muttering. The only person apparently feeling comfortable with the whole situation was Harry, whose shoulders relaxed as he grinned at Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Justin did not return the grin. ‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ he shouted, then he turned and stormed out of the hall, leaving Harry looking stunned.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke.

At the same time Weasley had made his way through the crowd to tug on Harry’s sleeve. He steered him out of the hall like the bodyguard he was, Granger hurrying alongside of them. As they went through the doors, the people on either side drew away as though they were frightened of catching something.

Harry J. Potter, meanwhile, looked even more clueless than usual.

‘Stop drooling,’ said a voice behind him.

Smirking, Pansy grabbed Draco’s arm and took him to the furthest corner of the Great Hall, where Vincent and Gregory were waiting for him to tell them what he saw and heard. They were rapidly firing questions at him and theorizing about all sorts of thing.

Pansy snapped her fingers in front of Draco’s face. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

Draco slammed her hand away. ‘Potter’s a Parselmouth!’

‘No kidding,’ said Pansy sarcastically. ‘Get with the program, Draconius.’

‘He can’t be the heir of Slytherin, he’s not even _in_ Slytherin!’ Draco crossed his arms, thinking hard. ‘If he really is a Parselmouth, he should be in Slytherin...' He groaned. 'He is _supposed_ to be in Slytherin, I knew it! It’s not bloody fair.’

They all scowled, because it really wasn’t fair.

Suddenly, Draco gasped. ‘The hat’s been tempered with!’

Pansy shrieked with laughter.

‘Quiet.’ Counting on his fingers, Draco said, ‘Dumbledore’s a Gryffindor, McGonagall’s Gryffindor, Potter’s no-good parents were Gryffindor – they wanted _him_ to be Gryffindor so bad that they convinced the Sorting Hat to put him there! Think about it!'

Pansy was attracting attention with the way she was laughing.

'Shut up! I bet the Weasleys are in on it too! My father always – ’

‘Malfoy, for heaven’s sake,’ said Pansy.

‘Crabbe and Goyle agree.’

They nodded. ‘Malfoy’s a point,’ said Vincent.

‘Potter’s gonna be a great dark wizard,’ said Gregory, ‘dad always says so.’

Pansy rolled her eyes. ‘Well, he’s _not_ in Slytherin. And right now he’s with the least dark people in this school, so… I doubt he’s going to defect anytime soon.’

Pondering, Draco chewed on the inside of his cheek.

His mind kept going back to the Potter’s fixated gaze, the sounds he'd made and the way the snake obeyed at once. It intimidated the living daylight out of him.

‘Wasn’t it so cool though?’

'Yeah,' grumbled Crabbe and Goyle.

Scowling, Pansy crossed her arms. ‘I bet we could do it.’

Draco quickly regained his pride. ‘Oh, no doubt.’

. . .

In the second week of December, Professor Snape came around as usual, collecting the names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. Vincent, Gregory and Draco decided to stay.

Being at Hogwarts right now was far more exciting than spending Christmas with just their parents in their respective Manors. Gregory’s little sister had started Beauxbatons this year and wasn’t coming home for Christmas either. There just wasn’t anything to do back home, while here at Hogwarts a murder mystery was unfolding right under their noses. If anything happened, Draco wanted to be the first to witness it.

He wrote his parents to let them know. Mother reacted disappointed and sulky, but Father thought it best too. Being pure-blood, Draco wouldn’t be at risk of Salazar’s revenge, and Father was very busy at the Ministry, he said.

Also, Draco had noticed Harry Potter stayed over at the castle almost every holiday. Perhaps with everyone gone and no more classes, Draco could spend time with him.

The past weeks Potter had become quiet and tired. Everywhere he went, people skirted around him, as though he was about to sprout fangs or spit poison. Draco hated it; all of a sudden everyone had an opinion about Harry and they all wanted to share it. They kept arguing about him being evil, being the Heir, opening the Chamber. It was ludicrous. This was _Harry J. Potter_ they were talking about, their very own Wonderboy. The boy everyone used to be in love with the minute they saw him, because he was the Saviour of the Wizarding World, powerful enough to beat the Dark Lord as a mere new-born. The Boy Who Smiled at every little thing: someone looked at him, he smiled; someone handed him something, he smiled; the slightest hint of daylight hit the rain-drenched window, he smiled. There was no limit to what cheered up Harry Potter. 

Meanwhile, he was even more shielded off than usual: the Weasley twins kept marching ahead of him down the corridors, shouting things like, ‘Make way for the Heir of Slytherin, seriously evil wizard coming through!’

Those dumb Gryffindors all thought it was tremendously funny. It infuriated Draco. He wished people would leave Potter alone – especially all those wretched Weasleys. Seeing them go, you’d think they’d inherited Potter as their property.

Draco wished the Heir of Slytherin would come and take _them_ out.

‘If only I knew who the real heir was,’ Draco complained for the millionth time, while lounging around in the Common Room with Crabbe and Goyle. ‘I could point out exactly who to go after.’

Crabbe and Goyle hummed in agreement.

‘Wouldn’t it be so convenient if it took out all of our enemies?’ Draco dreamt on. ‘Those nasty Patil-sisters – ’ for making Pansy’s life miserable ‘– Filch – ’ for putting Gregory and Vincent in detention every single time they went to the kitchen at night ‘ – Granger – ’ for beating Draco in every class ‘– and all those obnoxious Weasleys… especially the Monkey and the Girl-Weasley. They are far too possessive, it’s unhealthy.’

Someone snorted. Blaise Zabini glanced over the top of Gilderoy Lockhart’s ridiculous _Travel Trilogy_. ‘And you’re not possessive at all, right?’

Draco jumped up, beckoning for Crabbe and Goyle to follow him. ‘Nobody asked you anything,’ he snarled at Blaise, and they went to find a spot without people eavesdropping.

. . .

When Christmas finally arrived and everyone had left Hogwarts, Draco abandoned Crabbe and Goyle at the Great Hall to quickly return a book at the library. In and out, he’d said, back in a sec.

‘Dra,’ he heard a low voice whisper.

It awakened him from a deep trance. He’d been standing in front of a bookcase, engrossed in a novel. By the feeling in his legs he’d been standing like this for, quite possibly, hours.

Blinking himself out of the story and into the real world, he saw Harry.

‘Potter,’ he snarled. ‘What on earth are you doing here? _Can_ you read?’

‘Shut up.’ Harry leaned over to him, looking around as if to check if they were alone. ‘Do _you_ think I’m the heir of Slytherin?’

Draco scoffed. ‘Making weird sounds in the presence of snakes does not instantly change your entire heritage, Potter.’

‘No, I know… ’

Draco slouched against the bookshelves, still vividly remembering Potter Parseltongue-demonstration. The snake had looked up to Harry as if he was its general in command.

‘It sounded awesome,’ Draco heard himself blurt out. 

Harry’s mouth fell open. Draco felt like hitting himself in the head. Instead, he shrugged, and quickly added, ‘Don’t look so smug… It’s not very Gryffindorian, is it? Talking to snakes.’

‘I’m not smug at all, you git. I’m terrified.’

Draco frowned. ‘Why?’

Harry shuffled his feet. Then he locked eyes with Draco. ‘Could _I_ have opened the chamber of secrets? Unknowingly or something?’

Draco gave a short derisive laugh. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’d know if you did. _I’d_ know if you did – you’re not exactly subtle.’

‘Did you open it?’ Harry asked. ‘Ron and Hermione think so.’

‘Really?’ Draco jeered. ‘Oh, I’m _loving_ that. Do _you_ think I did?’

Harry shrugged.

Such an honour! Out of _all_ Slytherins they thought _he_ was most likely to be a direct descendant of Salazar!

Scowling, Draco shook his head. ‘My father knows things about the last time it opened, but he refuses to tell me.’ He straightened his back, put a hand on his heart and said in his best impression of his father’s voice: ‘”For us Malfoys the less we know about these things, the better.”’

Harry seemed to relax. He smiled again, and softly kicked Draco’s shoe. ‘Whatcha reading?’

Draco slapped the paperback in the palm of his hand. ‘Some trash novel about a vampire…’

His feet were killing him. He really shouldn’t start reading books like these before sitting down and having a good meal.

‘I fucking love vampires,’ he grumbled. They were his Achilles heel.

For some reason Harry burst out laughing. ‘Sorry.’ He coughed nervously. ‘Enjoy reading, bye.’

With that, Harry J. Potter left.

Was he ever just going to stay for a chat? Did he even ever want to talk to Draco without some agenda, Draco wondered. And he wasn’t even going to start racking his brain about what he was laughing about. At least Draco made him laugh, that must count for something, right?

. . .

Draco, Crabbe and Goyle were sitting on one of the stone benches, minding their own business, when suddenly Draco got slapped around the head.

Whirling around, he saw Harry Potter a few feet away from him, wand in hand. As soon as Draco saw him, he bolted past Weasley and Granger, howling with laughter.

Draco didn’t think. He jumped over the bench to get Harry back in his sight. Then he fired one of the jinxes that he’d been dying to try out ever since he started Hogwarts.

Shrieking with glee, he watched Harry tumble to the ground. ‘Tripping jinx, Potter!’

Before he could finish yelling it, Harry had already gotten up again – he made it look like one move: falling down and leaping back up. Over his shoulder, he fired a couple more slapping-curses at Draco, which Draco all managed to shield with a timely ‘Protego!’.

Draco was panting already. He needed to finish Harry quickly, before he’d tire out. He fired his Leg-Locker curse, and without slowing down he bent and caught Harry around the waist to slam him to the ground as hard as he could; or Harry would be on his feet again before Draco could say “Powerful Potter”.

Crowing in triumph, he pinned the Boy Who Lived down with his knees, and jabbed his wand under Harry’s chin. ‘You’re dead, Potter!’

Harry was panting and crying with laughter through his pain.

‘Can’t… breathe,’ he said, right before flinging his wand: ‘Flipendo.’

‘Protego!’

To his surprise, Draco flew back a few inches. Harry’s Flipendo had broken through his Protego.

Harry hung back to laugh some more. Catching his breath, Draco sat next to him in the grass.

‘I _excel_ at this,’ Harry declared.

His glasses got broken. Draco pointed his wand to repair it, at which Harry immediately pointed his own wand at Draco. Blood was welling up from a cut in his wand-wielding wrist, Draco noted.

‘Reparo,’ Draco mumbled and Harry’s glasses sprung back, fixed. Next, Draco grabbed Harry’s wrist. ‘Episkey.’

Episkey might be one of Draco’s favourite spells. It was immensely satisfying to watch open skin glue back together. Draco didn’t mind seeing blood and gore so long as it could be repaired.

Draco dropped Harry’s arm. It fell on the ground, and Harry sat up to inspect it.

As Draco walked back to his friends, he tried to surprise Harry with one last Stunning spell, which he somehow still managed to block. 

‘Admit it, Dra!’ Potter shouted, sitting abandoned in the grass. ‘I excel at this!’

‘Never!’ bellowed Draco, firing another futile spell at Harry.

It was the start of an ongoing duel, throughout the castle, lasting for weeks: every time Draco and Harry passed each other they tried out a new jinx. Sometimes they’d be on separate moving stairs, sometimes on different ends of corridors or hallways.

‘Potter!’ Draco would holler, before shooting another Leg-Locker curse.

It cost their houses dozens of points and drove their friends beyond insanity.

Draco would watch Harry frantically looking up new spells in the library, and practising them with Granger. Then Draco would check out the books and learn the spells himself, remembering the things he’d overheard Granger say about them.

Harry beat him almost every time, but each time Draco got slammed to the ground, smacked around or generally overpowered in front of his peers, he could not help but feel proud. Proud and absolutely bedazzled.

. . .

On Christmas morning, the loveliest gift Draco received was Harry J. Potter strolling into the Great Hall wearing a soft, cable-knitted sweater in a magnificent shade of emerald green. It marvellously brought out the green of his eyes and somehow made all other colours he consisted of look bright and shiny as well.

Only when someone pushed him, Draco became aware that he was staring with his mouth open.

‘Quickly,’ Pansy hissed, ‘pull him under the mistletoe!’

‘Oh, piss off,’ drawled Draco, firmly closing his mouth.

Potter walked past the Slytherin table.

‘Imagine being so poor you have to _make_ your own _clothes_ ,’ Draco loudly said, ‘or _worse_ **:** wear the _poor’s_ self-made clothes!’

Potter didn’t even look. 

‘Talk about _charity_!’ Draco shouted.

‘Not your strongest, Malfoy,’ remarked Blaise Zabini, to roaring laughter from the other Slytherins.

Draco glared at him, then continued, all through breakfast, to involuntarily stare at the Boy Who Lived, who looked positively glowing on this fine Christmas morning.

. . .

‘There you are,’ Draco drawled, spotting Crabbe and Goyle in the Dungeon corridors. For some reason they were talking with the Prefect Weasley. ‘Have you two been pigging out in the Great Hall all this time? I’ve been looking for you; I want to show you something really funny.’ He glanced witheringly at Weasley. ‘And what’re you doing down here, Weasley?’ he sneered.

Weasley looked outraged. ‘You want to show a bit more respect to a school Prefect!’ he said. ‘I don’t like your attitude!’

Draco sneered and motioned for Vincent and Gregory to follow him. As they turned into the next passage, Draco said, ‘That Peter Weasley –’

‘Percy,’ Vincent corrected him.

‘Whatever,’ said Draco. ‘I’ve noticed him sneaking around a lot lately. And I bet I know what he’s up to. He thinks he’s going to catch Slytherin’s heir single-handed.’ He gave a short, derisive laugh. As if!

They stopped at the stretch of bare, damp stone wall that hid their Common Room. ‘Pure- blood!’ said Draco, and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Draco marched through it.

‘Wait here,’ he said to Crabbe and Goyle, motioning them to a pair of empty chairs set back from the fire. ‘I’ll go and get it, my father’s just sent it to me – ’

He couldn’t wait to see his friends’ faces, and hurried to his dorm to get Father’s letter.

Coming back into the Common Room, he held the newspaper clipping under Vincent’s nose. ‘That’ll give you a laugh.’

INQUIRY AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, was today fined fifty Galleons for bewitching a Muggle car.

Mr. Lucius Malfoy, a governor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the enchanted car crashed earlier this year, called today for Mr. Weasley’s resignation. “Weasley has brought the Ministry into disrepute,” Mr. Malfoy told our reporter. “He is clearly unfit to draw up our laws and his ridiculous Muggle Protection Act should be scrapped immediately.”

Mr. Weasley was unavailable for comment, although his wife told reporters to clear off or she’d set the family ghoul on them.

‘Well?’ said Draco impatiently as Gregory handed the clipping back to him. ‘Don’t you think it’s funny?’

Gregory laughed in a weird, slow way. In music theory, Draco would describe his laugh as ‘staccato’.

‘Arthur Weasley loves Muggles so much he should snap his wand in half and go and join them,’ said Draco scornfully. ‘You’d never know the Weasleys were pure-bloods, the way they behave.’

Vincent’s face was contorted in a weird way.

‘What’s up with you, Crabbe?’ snapped Draco.

‘Stomach ache,’ Vincent grunted.

‘Well, go up to the Hospital Wing – and give all those Mudbloods a kick from me,’ said Draco, snickering. ‘You know, I’m surprised the Daily Prophet hasn’t reported all these attacks yet,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘I suppose Dumbledore’s trying to hush it all up. He’ll be sacked if it doesn’t stop soon. Father’s always said old Dumbledore’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to this place. He _loves_ Muggle-borns. A decent headmaster would never’ve let slime like that Creevey in.’

Malfoy started taking pictures with an imaginary camera and did a cruel but accurate impression of Colin Creevey: “Potter, can I have your picture, Potter? Can I have your autograph? Can I lick your shoes, please, Potter?”’

Gregory laughed for real now. ‘Stop it, Draco’

‘Saint Potter, the Mudbloods’ friend,’ Draco went on. ‘He’s another one with no proper wizard feeling, or he wouldn’t go around with that jumped up Granger Mudblood. And people think he’s Slytherin’s heir! I wish I knew who it is,’ said Draco petulantly. ‘I could help them.’

‘You must have some idea who’s behind it all,’ said Gregory.

‘You know I haven’t, Goyle, how many times do I have to tell you?’ snapped Draco. ‘And Father won’t tell me anything about the last time the Chamber was opened either. Of course, it was fifty years ago, so it was before his time, but he knows all about it, and he says that it was all kept quiet and it’ll look suspicious if I know too much about it. But I know one thing – last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, a Mudblood died. So I bet it’s a matter of time before one of them’s killed this time… I hope it’s Granger,’ he added with relish. ‘She keeps beating me in Potions.’

Gregory snorted.

‘What?’ asked Draco.

‘You’re so dramatic.’

Draco frowned. No more than usual, he reckoned.

‘D’you know if the person who opened the Chamber last time was caught?’ asked Gregory.

Draco raised an eyebrow. What was it with all these questions today?

‘Oh, yeah… whoever it was, was expelled,’ said Draco. ‘They’re probably still in Azkaban.’

‘Azkaban?’ said Gregory, puzzled.

Draco stared at him in disbelief. Goyle almost reminded him of stupid Potter with that puzzled expression and the dumb questions.

‘Azkaban – the Wizard prison, Goyle,’ he snarled. ‘Honestly, if you were any slower, you’d be going backward.’

Draco felt restless. This conversations was such a repetition of moves. They kept going over it: who could be the heir of Slytherin, who would be the next victim – it was infuriating not to know. He wanted to go out and investigate, but no – ‘Father says to keep my head down and let the Heir of Slytherin get on with it. He says the school needs ridding of all the Mudblood filth, but not to get mixed up in it.’

Of course it was sensible advise, but that didn’t make it fun.

‘You know, the Ministry of Magic raided our Manor last week,’ said Draco.

His parents had only wrote about it that morning, saying they didn’t want to distract him from his schoolwork.

‘Luckily, they didn’t find much. Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff. But luckily, we’ve got our own secret chamber under the drawing-room floor —’

‘Ho!’ said Vincent.

Draco looked at him. Vincent and Gregory looked at each other. Then, suddenly, both of them jumped to their feet.

‘Medicine for my stomach,’ Vincent grunted, and they sprinted the length of the Slytherin Common Room, hurled themselves at the stone wall, and dashed up the passage.

Draco gladly left the medical details to Madam Pomfrey. Bit of an anti-climax though; he’d looked forward to sharing a laugh over that article.

. . .

Draco couldn’t have imagined hating anyone more than that tosser Ron Weasley, but his little sister truly took the crown. The Weasley-girl kept eyeing Harry wherever he went, staring like he was a famous piece of art at best, and a glass of water in the middle of a dessert at worst. It was embarrassing for everyone.

‘Want to bet how fast they end up together?’ Draco complained, sitting in the library with Pansy. ‘She’s basically a female version of his disgusting bodyguard.’

‘Who?’ Pansy had the audacity to ask.

Draco slammed his hand in the direction of the Weasley-girl, who was ogling Harry from behind a bookcase.

Potter obviously didn’t notice. He was cluelessly giggling at one thing or another, and playing some dumb game with the Monkey Weasley, while Granger slaved away on her homework as usual.

She worked far too hard on everything, Draco reckoned. If Draco worked that hard, he’d be twice as ‘smart’ as her, but there were only so many things to do with one’s time and so much more to learn than what the teachers dished up for them. She had no creativity in personal growth whatsoever, if you asked Draco.

‘Oh Malfoy, please, the girl doesn’t talk,’ Pansy said. ‘Now Romilda, that’s your true rival in this game.’

‘Rotilda’s fugly,’ Draco grumbled. ‘What _game_? What are you insinuating here exactly?’

She looked at him with a knowing smile, that told Draco absolutely nothing.

‘Some say…’ she whispered, leaning closer to him. ‘That the Riddle of his Existence is his _mother’s love_.’

‘I _know_ , stupid girl,’ snarled Draco. ‘I read the book.’

‘She sacrificed herself to protect him,’ Pansy continued, ‘and _that_ ’s why he lived. They say he’s got her _love_ in his _blood_.’

Draco found it a wild explanation. Nothing new though, he read all about it in _The Boy Who Lived: a Biography of Harry Potter_ , but the author said there was no empirical evidence for the theory. 

‘ _I say_ ,’ Pansy went on pedantically, ‘that it is this Magical _love_ that gives him the _oozing_ that Rotilda goes on about. _And_ I say…’ 

She paused for a long, long time, ever so slowly opening her mouth. Draco refused to give her the pleasure of an impatient response and slouched back, raising an eyebrow.

‘I say,’ she repeated, ‘Harry’s hair crackles when _he’s_ feeling love.’

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Have you _looked_ at the guy? He _always_ feels love.’

‘Exactly! He _always_ feels love when _you’re_ around!’ Pansy smiled like the evil witches in Muggle fairy tales.

‘Oh you’re hilarious,’ Draco drawled. ‘He feels _love_ when _I’m_ around. Merlin, wouldn’t that be something…’ He snorted.

Harry Potter _loving_ Draco Malfoy. He couldn’t even picture it

The Weasley twins gathered around Granger, Weasley and Potter, like the family wasn’t smothering him enough already. The Weasley Girl was still watching too.

‘ _Merde_ , I wish that blood traitor family would stop suffocating him.’

‘He doesn’t seem suffocated.’

‘Yes, he does,’ snapped Draco. ‘He looks tired.’

‘Oh _Merlin_ , Draco! Why don’t you join their group, or something? So _you_ could suffocate him.’

‘I loathe them all.’

‘Just go up to him and ask if he wants to play Quidditch with you, or Wizard Chess or _anything_. I bet he says yes at once, he’s so _eager_ for you.’

Draco scowled at her. ‘You don’t simply _walk up_ to Harry J. Potter.’

‘Weak little boy.’

He glared at her.

'Oh,' said Pansy, eyes aglow, ‘did you know the Bastards have a codename for you?’

“The bastards” was Pansy’s way to indicate their teachers.

‘They call you and Potter “Crimson & Clover”.’

‘ _Me-and-Potter_? You’re joking.’

‘I am not. I heard them talk about “Crimson and Clover” fighting on the stairs, right after you and Potter had been fighting there. It wasn’t a brain wrecker to decipher.’

For a second, Draco didn’t know what to say. ‘They – They talk about Potter and _me_ behind our backs? Do they have a nickname for everyone Potter hangs out with?’

‘Don’t think so.’

Crimson and Clover… It sounded alright. It wouldn’t have mattered really, they could have called them Dumb and Dumber for all he cared, as long as they lumped him together with The Boy Who Lived.

‘Clover because of his eyes?’ Draco wondered out loud.

Pansy had to muffle her laughter with both hands.

Draco blinked, then realized. His face felt hot. ‘Oh! No!’

Crimson for Gryffindor, Clover for Slytherin!

‘Please, can you forget I said that?’

‘Never,’ shrieked Pansy. ‘Boy oh boy, you’re so _weak_ for him!’

‘Ssh!’

Pansy was crying with laughter. This conversation sickened Draco. It was all too weird.

‘I’m out.’

Gathering his stuff, he swaggered out of the library. ‘Potter,’ he hissed in passing while firing a slapping charm.

Harry was so heavily surrounded by Weasleys that he didn’t notice Draco in time. His head bopped forward, Draco jeered, and at once, all the gingers stepped aside, pointing their wands at Draco. None so accomplished in the art of self-defence as Harry, he easily beat them all to it. Whirling around, he made the ink of Granger’s ink pot float out, hurling it at Draco.

With a loud gasp, Draco looked down at his once bright white shirt. Pansy, Harry and all the gingers laughed so hysterically that Madame Pince appeared. She gasped even louder than Draco at the sight of his shirt and sent him outside with a shrieked, ‘No tomfoolery with ink around books!’

Harry jumped up. ‘Wait, Dra, I know how to clean – ’

‘You think _I_ don’t know?’ snapped Draco.

Harry groaned, grabbing Draco’s sleeve. ‘Will I ever be able to impress you?’

Standing outside, away from everyone, Draco put away his wand and lifted his arms. ‘Hit me with your best shot.’

With a face like he invented the spell himself, Harry Scorgified Draco’s blouse. It worked barely a little, but Harry seemed delighted.

Draco looked down at his shirt. ‘Good grief, Potter, you _suck_. You would not look so proud of this half-arsed job if you knew my mother even in the slightest.’

Harry grinned. ‘Then I’m glad I don’t.’

Draco Scorgified the shirt properly. ‘What game were you playing with the Weasel?’

‘ _Ron,_ you mean. Hangman; it’s a Muggle game.’

Draco scoffed. ‘Living Hangman’s way better. Especially if you use Muggles.’

Harry’s eyes grew big, until he recognised Draco’s jeering face. He smiled in relief. ‘You’re horrible.’

Harry lingered, watching Draco Scorgify. It encouraged Draco. Mustering up the nerve, he took a deep breath and in his most bored drawl he asked: ‘Fancy a game of Quidditch later?’

‘Yes!’ Harry’s face clouded over. ‘Oh, but I’m not allowed.’

Draco frowned.

‘Our Captain doesn’t want us to share techniques with the other teams.’

‘It’s not sharing techniques,’ Draco scoffed.

‘He literally stared me straight in the eye and said “No flying in front of Malfoy!” It was scary, like he read my mind.’

Draco tried not to grin. What exactly had been in Potter’s mind, he wondered.

He racked his brain for a loophole in Wood’s ban, but couldn’t think of anything. ‘Merlin, that sucks…’

Harry muttered another ‘Scorgify’, aimed at Draco’s hair. Then, frowning, he lifted his hand. ‘It doesn’t go out, stand still…’

He scratched some ink out of Draco’s hair. Draco felt a great swoop in his stomach; like he was diving fast with his Nimbus Two Thousand And One.

‘There,’ Harry mumbled, his fingers covered in ink stains.

Potter was such a scruffy kid, Mother would never allow someone like him even _near_ the Manor. His fingernails had black lines underneath them, his leisurewear was oversized, faded and threadbare, his thick, cheap glasses seemed to have been repaired at least a dozen times, and his crackling, black hair was full of tangles, like he hadn’t allowed a comb near it in years.

Meanwhile, his grass green eyes stood out between two thick layers of ink black eyelashes and seemed almost luminous beneath his dark, shading eyebrows. He looked like a mix of Heathcliff and Peter Pan, who, unfortunately, just happened to be two of Draco’s favourite fictional characters.

‘Sorry,’ Harry muttered when he saw Draco looking at his dirty nails. He tried cleaning the ink from his fingers with a bit of spit. ‘Looked pretty good though, didn’t you think? The ink floating through the air?’ 

‘I suppose,’ Draco drawled, trying with all his might to keep his awe in check. 

‘Right…’ Harry put his hands in his pocket, and turned to leave. Looking over his shoulder, his magnificent eyes swept over Draco from head to toe. ‘See you around, Malfoy.’

With that, he abandoned Draco again, leaving him standing in the middle of an empty corridor, alone with his screaming thoughts, feeling nauseous and hot.

Why was Draco so hell-bent to befriend the one person at Hogwarts he couldn’t and shouldn’t befriend? And _why_ was it so difficult? It seemed like every person in the world wanted to keep Harry Potter away from Draco Malfoy – including Draco Malfoy himself.

. . .

_En route_ to his Defence against the Dark Arts class, there was a hold up in the East wing.

‘What’s going on here?’ Draco demanded.

To get answers, he had to elbow his way to the front of the crowd again. As usual, it was Harry Potter who caused the stir. He was spread out on the floor, while an ugly Valentine dwarf clung onto his legs. All Harry’s possessions were scattered across the corridor and his face was bright red.

Potter was feverishly stuffing everything into his ripped bag, clearly desperate to get away.

‘What’s all this commotion?’ said Prefect-Weasley. ‘Crimson and Clover back at it again?’

Draco glared at him, resisting the urge to kick him.

Then, the dwarf started to sing the worst poem Draco had ever heard. Something about Harry’s eyes looking like pickled toad and him being a hero, defeating the Dark Lord.

Potter did not enjoy it. His hair seemed to move on its own to hide his flushed face. Trying valiantly to laugh along with everyone else, he got up, as Prefect-Weasley did his best to disperse the crowd, some of whom were crying with mirth.

‘Off you go, off you go, the bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now,’ he said, shooing some of the younger students away. ‘And you, Malfoy – ’

Draco stooped and snatched up something that looked an awful lot like a diary. It looked as battered and inked as Potter himself. Leering, he showed it to Vincent and Gregory.

‘Give that back,’ said Harry.

‘Wonder what Potter’s written in this?’ Draco teased the crowd.

A hush fell over the onlookers. Of course, the Girl-Weasley was part of the crowd again too, staring from the diary to Harry, looking terrified for her little crush.

‘Hand it over, Malfoy,’ said Prefect-Weasley.

‘When I’ve had a look,’ said Draco, waving the diary tauntingly at Harry. His heart beating fast. What did Harry want to hide from him?

Percy said, ‘As a school prefect – ’

The second Draco opened the diary, Harry shouted, ‘Expelliarmus!’ and just as Snape had disarmed Lockhart, so Draco found the diary shooting out of his hand into the air.

‘Harry!’ said Percy loudly. ‘For the hundredth time: no Magic in the corridors. I’ll have to report this again!’

Harry seemed angry with Draco.

The Girl-Weasley passed Draco to enter her classroom. This was all her fault. Clearly this had been her stupid Valentine, and it had put Harry in a bad mood. 

‘I don’t think Potter liked your Valentine much!’ he yelled after her.

‘Don’t bother her, Draco, for something you don’t have the guts to do!’ Harry snapped back at him. His face still bright red, he turned to go inside the classroom. Weasley followed, guffawing like a moron.

Did The Boy Who Lived really keep a diary? Did Draco just hold all Harry J. Potter's secrets in his hand? It couldn't be...

Draco looked at Vincent and Gregory, but they just shrugged.

. . .

‘Ha ha!’ Draco jeered after reading his father’s letter. He slapped Vincent and Gregory on their arms, then shushed the Slytherin table. ‘Listen to this!’

_Draco,_

_You may be proud to know that your dear old dad has not yet lost his touch. As you know, I am one of the school governors, and therefore have been entrusted with the noble responsibility to regulate the comings and goings at Hogwarts._

_Dreadful things have been happening lately and it seems that your Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has lost his grasp on the situation. After a little convincing, the board of governors agree that it is time for the old man to step aside. I managed to get all twelve of their autographs on an Order of Suspension – meaning that the old chap has been suspended as Headmaster until further notice._

_I heard there have been two more attacks. At this rate, there’ll be no Muggle-borns left at Hogwarts, and we all know what an awful loss that would be to the school.’_

Draco could hardly keep reading from laughing.

_‘Let’s hope the next Headmaster will manage the situation in a more adequate matter._

_Meanwhile, lay low and stay safe._

_Love,_

_Your father’_

Suspended! Father managed to suspend their silly Muggle-hugging fool of a Headmaster, whom everyone adored! Draco’s father was the best influencer; he could talk the gold from a Niffler.

Suspending Albus Dumbledore! This was the best move he could have made for the school.

Draco’s father had wanted Dumbledore gone the second he got appointed as Headmaster, and rightly so. The subjects they got taught here were soft, weak, as was the way they got taught. There was so much more and stronger Magic to be learned out there in the real world. Oh, Draco hoped a dark wizard would take Dumbledore’s place. Then things could get really interesting!

Draco couldn’t keep quiet about it.

‘I always thought Father might be the one who got rid of Dumbledore,’ he told Vincent and Gregory when they went down to the Dungeons for Potions class. ‘I told you he thinks Dumbledore’s the worst headmaster the school’s ever had. Maybe we’ll get a decent headmaster now. Someone who won’t want the Chamber of Secrets closed. McGonagall won’t last long, she’s only filling in…’

When Snape got in, he divided them into the same old pairs again, so Harry sat down next to Draco; giving Draco a fresh new audience to impress.

‘Sir,’ he said loudly. ‘Sir, why don’t you apply for the headmaster’s job?’

‘Now, now, Draco,’ said Snape, though he couldn’t suppress a thin-lipped smile. ‘Professor Dumbledore has only been suspended by the governors. I dare say he’ll be back with us soon enough.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Draco, smirking. ‘I expect you’d have Father’s vote, sir, if you wanted to apply for the job – I’ll tell Father you’re the best teacher here, sir – ’

Snape smirked as he swept off around the dungeon.

Harry pretended to vomit in their cauldron.

‘Piss off, Potter,’ Draco snarled. ‘One of us has to make sure we beat your nerdy friend. I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed their bags by now. Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t Granger.’

Harry turned away from him.

‘Oh come on.’

Harry was not amused. ‘Death is not a joke, Malfoy.’

Draco leaned over to him, tapping his leg. ‘But it would make _us_ top of the class.’

The bell rang. ‘Let me at him,’ Harry’s Monkey-friend growled, while Harry and another Gryffindor hung onto his arms. ‘I don’t need my wand, I’m going to kill him with my bare hands – ’

Smirking, Draco left the Dungeon, safely flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

. . .

Midmorning, when they were being led to Charms by Professor Flitwick, Professor McGonagall’s voice came echoing through the corridors, magically magnified.

‘All students to return to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please.’

Draco looked round at Vincent and Gregory.

This was it. Something of importance had happened. Had the Heir of Slytherin finally succeeded?

‘Let’s go.’ Draco checked to see if Flitwick was looking, then made to get away.

A hand closed around his. ‘I don’t like this,’ whispered Pansy, pressing herself between Draco and Gregory. She hugged Draco’s arm as if the Heir of Slytherin was pulling on her already.

‘Well, I love it,’ snapped Draco, desperately trying to shake her off . ‘Let go of me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘I want to see what’s happened.’

‘Mister Malfoy! Miss Parkinson!’ came Professor Flitwick’s voice. ‘Keep up, please!’

With an aggressive motion, Draco yanked himself loose from Pansy. He had no choice now but to follow the other Slytherins to their Common Room.

‘ _Je t’emmerde_ ,’ hissed Draco, throwing Pansy a withering look.

There, they waited for what felt like hours. Draco tried to sneak out from time to time, but all six Prefects had their eyes on him alone, it seemed, and the Head Girl was looking positively livid with him.

After yet another failed attempt to go, he fell back into a chair with a heavy sigh. ‘I want to know what happened!’

Right at that moment, a murmur broke out. Draco craned to see why and saw a tall figure in the doorway. Their Head of House had arrived.

‘Your attention, please,’ Snape slowly drawled, even though everyone was looking at him already. ‘As you might have suspected, it has happened. A student has been taken into the Chamber of Secrets.’

Pansy shrieked; Alexander Orlando gasped; Millicent Bulstrode clapped her hands over her mouth.

Draco elbowed closer to Snape, eager to get every bit of information he could get.

‘The Hogwarts Express – ’

‘How can you be sure they are in the Chamber if you don’t know where it is?’ interrupted Draco.

‘The Heir of Slytherin,’ said Snape, ‘left another message. Now – ’

‘Who is it?’ asked Draco loudly. ‘Who’s been taken?’

Snape seemed to consider his question for a few seconds.

‘The student who has been taken,’ he replied, ‘is Ginny Weasley.’

Silence fell over the Common Room.

Ginny Weasley? The kid who was always ogling Harry J. Potter? The little blood-traitor sister of Monkey Weasley?

‘But she’s pure-blood!’

‘She is,’ confirmed Snape. ‘Now, the Hogwarts Express will arrive tomorrow morning to take you home.’

‘Home?!’

‘Master Malfoy, if you could refrain from commenting, so I can – ’

‘My father – ’

‘Will hear about your behaviour, Master Malfoy, if you can’t keep quiet,’ said Snape through clenched teeth. 

Resentfully, Draco shut his mouth. He had so many questions.

‘Prefects, make sure all Slytherin students are packed and ready to go first thing tomorrow morning. Every student leaving this Common Room before that time will risk serious consequences.’

‘Lies,’ muttered Draco. ‘House points don’t matter anymore, and when could we get punished? We’ll be gone tomorrow.’

‘Ssh,’ hissed the Head Girl, throwing him a warning look.

Draco was not impressed. He wanted to see the Chamber of Secrets. He wanted to know who the Heir was. He demanded answers!

And so he retreated in his dorm to write his father. 

. . .

Somehow, everything went downhill from that moment on. All of a sudden, Dumbledore got back, as if being suspended meant nothing anymore. Rumour had it that the other eleven governors did not voluntarily suspend the Headmaster in the first place. They all turned on Draco’s father, saying he threatened and blackmailed them.

‘So what?’ drawled Draco, throwing the Daily Prophet at the Slytherin table during breakfast the next morning. ‘Fine governors they are, making themselves susceptible to blackmail. Too weak to resists a simple threat. Not exactly traits to boast about, if you ask me.’

Vincent and Gregory grunted in agreement.

Ulysses flew in and dropped a letter in Draco’s lap. ‘Finally! Took his time…’

Feeding the owl some sausage, he read the letter – and he almost choked on his pumpkin juice. ‘We lost our House Elf!’

‘Lost?’ Vincent frowned.

‘Where did you last see it?’ said Gregory, ever so helpful. ‘That’s what mum always says.’

‘No, you buffoon, my father says he accidentally set it free. Something to do with Potter, he says.’ Draco frowned. ‘It involved a filthy sock – Potter is disgusting… They keep saying Slytherins are foul, but the Wizarding World’s brave Gryffindor Wonderboy is at least as cunning.’

For the umpteenth time, Draco wondered why Harry wasn’t in Slytherin.

‘Potter should be in Slytherin. He belongs with us. He’s a Parselmouth for Merlin’s sake!’

This letter was making him angry.

‘Is he talking about Potter again?’ Pansy remarked from further down the table.

‘It’s not even eight…’ said Daphne Greengrass with a big yawn.

Pansy almost knocked over the orange juice as she leant across the table. ‘Have you heard?’

‘I haven’t heard shit,’ Draco snarled. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’

Pansy pouted, a glimmer in her eye. ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Smirking, she raised her hands to add suspension. ‘The heir of Slytherin… was the D _ark Lord_. They say he possessed that Weasley girl!’

‘Rubbish,’ Draco muttered.

‘There was a giant snake too and – guess what?’

Draco scowled. ‘What?’

‘Guess who saved the girl and slayed the monster?’ Pansy grinned broadly.

Draco did not want to guess. He pretended to be uninterested and took a large bite out of his croissant.

‘Our grand celebrity!’ Pansy shrieked. ‘Harry J. Potter. With a _sword_!’

Draco choked for real this time. Gregory slapped his back, which did not do much good.

‘A – a _sword_?’ Draco uttered, gasping for breath.

How was he ever going to push that vision from his mind? Merlin, Harry Potter was beyond cool.

‘You alright?’ asked Gregory.

‘No,’ grumbled Draco. ‘ _Putain_ , I wish she’d died.’

‘No, you don’t,’ said Pansy.

‘Filthy blood-traitor. Probably got herself taken into the Chamber on purpose, just so Potter would save her.’

Pansy snorted, and even sleepy Daphne giggled.

Draco wondered if they kissed, down there in that Chamber...

He felt confused. How could he be angry at Potter and in awe of him at the same time?

‘Merlin, I'm glad it’s our last day.’

As Draco got on the train, he was relieved to go back home, where he didn’t have to think about The Boy Who Lived for an entire blissful summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my Pansy's Chinese and my Harry's half-Indonesian. I myself am white. If I'm being racist, please [ let me know.](https://fanarthasmyheart.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Also, I accidentally made Romilda Vane a year older than she is in canon. I thought she was in Harry's year, but she's a year below Ginny and Luna. That's not working for me, so she's Ginny's classmate now. Sorry, Ginevra.


	3. Yours

Father’s laugh echoed scathingly through the Manor.

Rubbing the sleeping dust out of his eyes, Draco made his way down the Grand Staircase. His father was standing in the middle of the Entrance Hall, reading the Daily Prophet.

‘Good morning, Dragonchild,’ he called, sounding more cheerful than he’d been all summer. ‘Your _friends_ are in the paper.’ He let out another loud, derisive laugh and handed Draco the newspaper.

MINISTRY OF MAGIC EMPLOYEE SCOOPS GRAND PRIZE

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic, has won the annual Daily Prophet Grand Prize Galleon Draw. A delighted Mr Weasley told the Daily Prophet, ‘We will be spending the gold on a summer holiday in Egypt, where our eldest son, Bill, works as a curse breaker for Gringotts Wizarding Bank.’ The Weasley family will be spending a month in Egypt, returning for the start of the new school year at Hog warts, which five of the Weasley children currently attend.

Draco scanned the moving photograph accompanying it, and a smirk spread across his face as he saw all nine of the Weasleys waving furiously, standing in front of a large pyramid. Smack in the middle of the picture was the Monkey-Weasley, tall and gangling, with – Draco swore he wasn’t making this up – a live _rat_ on his _shoulder_. He had his arm around the Girl-Weasley, the lurker, Harry’s not-so-secret admirer.

Draco scowled seeing her, painfully remembering how she got saved by a sword-wielding Harry J. Potter at the end of last year. It was too early to be confronted with his worst enemies like this.

‘Seven hundred Galleons,’ jeered his father, ‘and it makes the newspaper! Next time I find a Knut on the street we’ll make the front page!’

They walked over to the Dining Room, where Draco’s mother was sipping tea and apparently gruesomely burning her lips on it. ‘ _Put –_ ’ she quickly stifled the curse word when she spotted Draco. ‘My two favourite men in the world.’

‘Here, my lady, this will give you a laugh,’ said Father, handing the paper to Draco’s mother.

Being a quick reader, she put it down within seconds, smirking. ‘Absolutely typical,’ she drawled. ‘Finally land themselves some playing money and throw it down the drain on the first thing they can think of.’

‘My thoughts exactly!’ Draco’s father jeered. ‘Decorating the house to match the cat! I almost feel we ought to help the poor sods. ’

‘Gosh, imagine that… They are positively clueless. Even something as simple as building up a little nest egg is beyond them.’

Father shook his head. ‘Look at that photo. Poor man.’

‘Poor _woman_ ,’ snarled Mother.

‘Why does _that one_ have vermin on their garment?’

‘Look at their postures. Our family Healer would go feral.’

Silently sipping his tea, Draco enjoyed the show. It was the prerogative of being the Malfoy heir to witness his parents’ private vilifications.

The blissful moment got ruined when Tinsel, their single left-over House Elf, showed up to bring more tea.

‘I cannot believe we lost Dobby,’ Mother immediately said. ‘I still cannot understand how you could have let that happen, Lucius. Why did you take him out of the house in the first place?’

Draco sat up a little straighter. The whole situation had been hushed up and Draco never got to hear what happened with the old House Elf, as if he wasn’t part of this household.

‘I already explained myself,’ said Father. ‘I do not wish to discuss it any further.’

‘The Manor demands more than a single House Elf to run it, Lucius. If you think _I_ – ’

Father’s butterknife clanged on his plate. ‘I would _loathe_ to see you make your hands dirty, my heartbeat, you know how much of a turn-off a working woman is to me.’ He punctuated his words with his walking stick, ‘Dirt! Callus!’

Draco’s mother shuddered. ‘Oh, enough, enough!’

Draco used their lack of attention to put way too much jam on his croissant. It dripped over his hands on his plate. That’s the way he liked it.

'But, moonbeam, imagine the looks when our guest notice the same House Elf twice. What will we do?’ Mother rubbed Father’s arm and shoulders. ‘I _need_ a new House Elf.’

Father gave her a kiss. ‘And I will get you one.’

Draco raised his eyebrows. House Elves weren’t for sale or anything. He wondered where his father could possibly be getting them a new one.

A playful smile lit up his mother’s eyes. ‘Oh, you are just pleasing me…’

Draco’s father smirked. ‘My favourite pastime.’

It yielded him a kiss.

Draco had enough of the sticky stuff this early in the morning. ‘Did you know Harry– ’

Immediately, Father lashed out. ‘No! I will not hear the name of that blood-traitor anymore! Not now, not ever, not at this house, do you hear me? Especially not at the breakfast table!’

Baffled, Draco stammered, ‘What? Since when? Why not?’

‘I said _no_ , Draconius!’

His mother gasped. ‘Oh!’

At once, Father was distracted. ‘What is it, my dearest?’

‘My cousin!’ Mother pushed the paper in his direction and with their heads bend together, they read an article. Curious, Draco walked over and they made room for him to read too.

‘SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPED FROM AZKABAN,’ the headline read.

‘Your cousin... He escaped Azkaban?’ his father said. ‘That dim-witted prankster escaped the most heavily guarded prison in the world?’

‘How did he manage?’ muttered his mother. ‘Even Bel could not.’

There was a picture accompanying the article. Draco looked into the shadowed eyes of Sirius Black, the only part of the sunken face that seemed alive. Draco had never met a vampire, but he had seen pictures of them, and Black, with his waxy white skin, looked just like one.

‘Is that my uncle?’

‘First cousin once removed,’ muttered his mother. ‘Do we worry, Lucius?’

‘Never!’ With a flourish, Draco’s father grabbed his walking stick. ‘He should worry about us.’

Draco scanned the article. His eyes widened. ‘He killed thirteen people?’

His father scoffed. ‘As if.’

Draco almost missed the look his mother shot his father, just before his dad snatched the newspaper away. ‘Do not worry, Draco. It is all ancient history.’

Draco let out a sigh. ‘The less us Malfoys know the better?’ he repeated last year’s advice.

Father smiled. ‘Smart lad. Go fly your little Nimbus. Now, my heartbeat, I will go and bully someone into getting us a House Elf.’

Mother clapped her hands. ‘Oh yay, moonbeam!’ She kissed him again and Draco fled the room. He’d seen enough.

First things first, however, and he went to the Library to find out what Sirius Black had done. How did someone kill thirteen people in one blow? He must have been incredibly powerful.

Draco didn’t understand how the man fitted into his family. His parents did not seem happy to see him returned, even though they were family and should have been on the same side during the war if he was in Azkaban like aunty Bel.

Wait a minute! Thirteen people, Draco remembered a fact like that. “Only a toe left” was another fact that popped into his head.

Draco ran upstairs to fetch _The Boy Who Lived: A Biography of Harry Potter_ from his bedroom’s bookcase. Jumping on his bed with it, he flipped through the index pages.

 _Black, Sirius_ _– page 30-35._

Reading the chapter again, he gasped: Sirius Black betrayed Potter’s parents! He was the one who told the Dark Lord where to find them. _He_ was the reason the Dark Lord killed Harry’s mom and dad!

Perhaps that was the reason why Draco’s parents didn’t like him, he thought – because of Sirius Black the Dark Lord had been killed. It had meant the end of the Golden Days.

And now this man was at large again. Draco wondered if this meant Harry was in danger. He wished he could ask his parents, but Draco’s father had been pretty clear about discussing Potter. For whatever reason.

He wondered if Harry wanted revenge. Draco would.

. . .

On the journey back to Hogwarts after summer, Draco wanted to stretch his restless legs. Vincent and Gregory accompanied him. Mid-afternoon, just as it had started to rain, blurring the rolling hills outside the window, Draco happened to notice Harry Potter, sharing a compartment with his useless friends. Before he knew it, he was pulling open the compartment door.

‘Well, look who it is,’ he said in a lazy drawl. ‘Potter and his Weasel.’ Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle chuckled. ‘I heard your father finally got his hands on some gold this summer, Weasley. Did your mother die of shock?’

‘Shut _up_ , Draco,’ Harry said, while Weasley stood up so quickly he knocked a basket to the floor.

A snoring sound drew Draco’s attention to the window seat. Something he had taken for a ball of rags appeared to be a human, sitting fast asleep next to the window. An adult human.

The Hogwarts Express was usually reserved for students and he had never seen an adult there before, except for the witch who pushed the food trolley.

‘Who’s that?’ Draco asked, taking an automatic step backwards.

The stranger was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard’s robes which had been darned in several places. He looked ill and exhausted. Though quite young, his light-brown hair was flecked with grey.

‘New teacher,’ said Harry, who had got to his feet, too.

Draco narrowed his eyes. ‘C’mon,’ he muttered resentfully to Crabbe and Goyle, and they walked out.

‘A teacher?’ he muttered at his friends and they shrugged.

‘Oh come on, Dra! He won’t bite!’

Looking around, Draco saw Harry leaning out of the compartment with a broad, jeering grin on his filthy face. Draco couldn’t stop smiling for a full half hour.

. . .

‘I’m hungry,’ Vincent complained, as the gale outside pounded their carriage.

The words had hardly left him when the train started to slow down.

‘Are we there?’ said Vincent hopefully.

‘We can’t be,’ said Draco, looking out of the window. ‘Why are we stopping?’

The train was going slower and slower. As the noise of the pistons fell away, the wind and rain sounded louder than ever against the windows. 

‘Come on.’ Draco ushered his friends to take a walk through the corridor, to see if anyone knew what was up. All along the carriage, heads were sticking curiously out of their compartments, when suddenly the train came to a full stop. Distant thuds and bangs told them that luggage had fallen out of the racks. The sudden jolt made Vincent bump into Draco, and Draco bump into Gregory.

‘Sod off!’ snarled Draco, pushing Gregory away.

Then, without warning, all the lights went out and they were plunged into total darkness.

‘Ouch! That’s my foot!’

‘I can’t see!’

Further down the carriage somebody cast Lumos, shining a little light on what was happening. Draco peeked over Vincent’s shoulder.

Standing in the carriage corridor, illuminated by the faint light of the wand, was a cloaked figure that towered all the way to the ceiling. Its face was completely hidden beneath its hood. There was a hand protruding from the cloak and it was glistening, greyish, slimy-looking and scabbed, like something dead that had decayed in water…

For a moment, Draco froze, stuck between Vincent and Gregory, staring at the monster. Then the thing beneath the hood, whatever it was, drew a long, slow, rattling breath, as though it was trying to suck something more than air from its surroundings. An intense cold swept over them. The cold went deeper than Draco’s skin. It was inside his chest, it was inside his very heart…

‘AAUGH!’ Draco pushed Vincent aside and bolted headfirst into the nearest compartment. Elbowing his way through the people inside, he hid behind some taller students. He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes. The coldness made him feel miserable, worse than he had ever done before. It felt like he would never be happy again.

Apart from the gasps of the other students, it was awfully quiet. Nobody talked, nobody shouted or screamed.

Shivering, Draco braced himself, when suddenly the lights went on again. The temperature went back to normal, and along with the carriage-lights, it felt like the light in Draco’s heart had switched on again too.

‘Hey, little wanker! Get out!’

Someone laughed mockingly. ‘Did you piss yourself, little git?’

‘Not so cocky now, ay?’

Draco looked up and his heart sank in his stomach. Out of all compartments in the train, he had ran into the one with the worst bullies in school: the Weasley twins and their gang of Gryffindor scum.

‘Shut up,’ he mumbled, trying to make his way out of the compartment as quick as he could, but one of the twins grabbed his collar.

‘What did you say?’

‘Here,’ said the other one, ‘take some candy. Treat your friends.’

They stuffed his pockets and, still roaring with laughter, they pushed him out of the compartment with such force that he tumbled on the floor.

Vincent and Gregory had lifted him back on his feet, and before Draco could stop them, they had spotted the candy and were stuffing several pieces of it into their mouths. At once, Vincent began to itch like a madman, while his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth, while Gregory started jumping from one foot onto the other like he was standing on hot coals. ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch!’ he squeaked, with a voice sounding like he inhaled helium.

The Gryffindors roared with laughter.

‘Buffoons!’ Draco hissed at his friends, pushing them along the corridor to get them to Pansy or Alexander Orlando.

‘I was with Harry Potter – ’

Draco wheeled around to see who said that and saw Longbottom leaning into one of the compartments. ‘The Dementor got _inside_ our compartment. We all felt terrible. It felt like we would never be happy again.’

Yes yes, Draco thought, what about Harry?

‘Did any of you pass out though?’ Neville asked. ‘Harry fainted.’

Harry _fainted_?! Draco couldn’t help but let out a derisive laugh.

Neville’s head popped out of the compartment, looking terrified as always.

‘Potter fainted?!’ Draco jeered. ‘Oh my! Wait till Pansy hears this!’

He dragged the hopping and scratching Vincent and Gregory along to Pansy’s compartment.

. . .

At last, the carriage swayed to a halt – for real this time – and Draco, Vincent and Gregory got out. Crabbe and Goyle still couldn’t talk normally, but at least the combined efforts of Pansy, Draco, Alexander Orlando and Adrian Pucey made them stop itching and jumping around. The two nimrods were the only ones not laughing their heads off. Pansy borrowed Blaise Zabini’s camera to capture the moment forever in a dozen photos, angering Crabbe and Goyle even more. By the time they left the train, the two of them were in a foul mood. Hunger and humiliation seemed to be an explosive combination. 

The field in front of the castle, where the carriages landed, was crowded. Draco craned and finally spotted Harry Potter getting out two carriages away from them. Delighted, Draco pushed his way through the crowd to reach him and leaned against the carriage.

‘You fainted, Potter?’ he drawled as Harry stepped down.

Harry tensed up and seemed to want to walk away, so Draco elbowed past Granger to block Potter’s way up the stone steps to the castle. ‘Is Longbottom telling the truth? You actually fainted?’

‘Shove off, Malfoy,’ said Weasley, whose jaw was clenched.

‘Did you faint as well, Weasley?’ said Draco loudly. ‘Did the scary old Dementor frighten you, too, Weasley?’

‘Is there a problem?’ said a mild voice.

The ball of rags they’d seen in Harry’s compartment had just got out of the next carriage.

Draco gave the man an insolent stare, which took in the patches on his robes and the dilapidated suitcase. With a hint of sarcasm in his voice, he said, ‘Oh, no – er – Professor,’ then he smirked at Vincent and Gregory, and lead them up the steps into the castle.

Blaise Zabini joined them halfway along. ‘Potter fainted? For real?’

Draco grinned, looking round at The Boy Who Lived. ‘Not so fearless after all, is he?’

They all had a great laugh about it.

. . .

The next morning, Draco waited until every Slytherin was at the breakfast table before he told them the great scoop about The Boy Who Lived.

‘The Boy Who Fainted!’ he concluded, before doing a dramatic impression of a swooning fit. The entire table roared with laughter.

‘There he is, there he is!’

‘Hey Potter!’ shrieked Pansy. ‘Potter! The Dementors are coming, Potter! Woooooooo!’

‘What did it look like, Draco?’ asked Vincent. ‘How did Potter faint?’

Delighted, Draco pretended to faint in terror again. And again and again. Glancing at the Gryffindor table he saw every Weasley watching him with a dark look on their faces, and even Potter sneaked a peek over his shoulder at him.

So busy being funny, Draco hardly had time to eat. Harry left quickly that morning. As soon as Draco saw him get up, he jumped up too, to send him off with another fainting-impression.

This time, Potter looked – and he smiled, showing Draco his middle finger.

Draco fell back in his chair, feeling satisfied. ‘Pass me the bacon,’ he interrupted Gregory asking for another impression.

. . .

As they went down the sloping lawns to Hagrid’s hut on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Draco told Crabbe and Goyle about all the hilariously dull Muggle inventions Jason had been talking about during Quidditch practice. However much Draco had objected, Jason the Mudblood had been accepted as their new Chaser, and however Draco hated to admit it, he was a fairly tolerable Chaser too.

When they arrived at their first Care of Magical Creatures class, Draco carefully took out his book, which he had bound shut with a length of rope.

‘I can’t believe this monstrosity get approved by the board,’ he drawled. Vincent and Gregory grunted in agreement.

Glancing around at the group to see how the others had dealt with their books, Draco froze.

‘ _Merde_.’ he hissed. ‘This class is with Gryffindor!’

‘What’s the matter, Draconius?’ jeered Pansy. ‘Not happy to see your best friend?’

‘Shut up, Pansy, he’s not–…’ His voice trailed off.

Harry Potter was staring into space with a sullen expression. His friends were standing with their backs towards each other, like they were having a fight. Draco frowned.

‘Now, firs’ thing yeh’ll want ter do,’ Hagrid started the class, demanding Draco’s attention, ‘is open yer books –’

‘How?’ drawled Draco.

‘Eh?’ said Hagrid.

‘How do we open our books?’ Draco repeated. He showed his bound-up copy of The Monster Book of Monsters.

‘Yeh’ve got ter stroke ’em,’ said Hagrid, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Look…’ He took Granger’s copy and ripped off the Spellotape that bound it. The book tried to bite, but Hagrid ran a giant fore finger down its spine, and the book shivered, then fell open and lay quiet in his hand.

‘Oh, how silly we’ve all been!’ Draco sneered. ‘We should have stroked them! Why didn’t we guess!’

‘I… I thought they were funny,’ Hagrid said uncertainly.

‘Oh, tremendously funny! Really witty, giving us books that try and rip our hands off!’

‘Stand down, Dra,’ Harry told him.

Draco scowled, but when Hagrid looked the other way, Harry pulled up his sleeve to show Draco a messy wound on his wrist.

Draco clenched his fists. Did the boy just walk around with injuries like that, he thought, as if they were a part of life they just had to bear?

‘Righ’ then,’ said Hagrid, stammering like he had no clue what he was doing. ‘So… so yeh’ve got yer books an’… an’… now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I’ll go an’ get ’em. Hang on…’

He strode away from them into the Forest and out of sight, leaving the class alone for minutes on end.

‘Did he never get the memo about class preparation?’ snarled Pansy.

‘God, this place is going to the dogs,’ said Draco. ‘That oaf teaching classes, my father’ll have a fit when I tell him –’

‘Shut up, Draco,’ said Harry.

‘Careful, Potter, there’s a Dementor behind you.’

Harry shot him an exhausted look and Draco couldn’t help but grin.

Still, there was no sign of their “teacher”. Glancing in the direction of the Forest Hagrid had disappeared in, Draco grew restless. He spotted Harry scratching his arm. Draco wondered if the wound hurt. Why didn’t he fix it up?

 _Merde,_ this wouldn’t do.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Vincent.

Draco pretended not to hear. As inconspicuous as he could, he swaggered closer to Potter, and in a careless gesture while passing, he locked the Weasel’s legs together with a Leg-Locker curse. In the chaos that ensued he swiftly seized Potter’s arm. ‘Episkey.’

The wounds on Harry’s wrist healed, satisfying Draco immensely.

Hands in his pockets, he stalked back to his friends. Forcing himself to look casual, he turned away from Harry – and looked straight into Pansy’s mocking face.

‘He’s smiling at you,’ she jeered.

‘Shut up.’

Pansy laughed her loud shrieking laugh, and Draco felt like smacking her around the head.

Thankfully, Hagrid came back right that moment, a bunch of huge animals in tow: half horse, half eagle. 

Crabbe leaned over to Draco. ‘What’d you do that for?’

‘Be specific, Vinciento.’

Gregory nodded at Potter and Draco pushed him with both hands, as if that had any effect. ‘Don’t look, idiot! What do you mean, “What did I do that for?” He was bleeding!’

‘So?’ said Vincent, scowling.

‘So… I like healing people.’

’You gon’ be a Healer?’ asked Gregory, wide-eyed.

Draco stared at him. It had never crossed his mind that healing wounds could be monetized – a career…

‘Gregorius, you genius! I might be!’ he hissed, feeling suddenly excited. He looked around for Pansy to tell her the news. ‘Pansy! Pánsy!’

She was whispering with Tracey Davis.

‘Pánsy! I might – ’

‘I’ll do it,’ said the slow, husky voice of Harry Potter.

Draco whirled around and caught the Boy Who Lived staring straight at him.

There was an intake of breath and for some reason both Lavender and Parvati whispered, ‘Oooh, no, Harry, remember your tea leaves!’

Harry ignored them. He climbed over the paddock fence and walked up to the monstrous creatures.

‘He’ll do what? What’s he doing?’ hissed Draco at his friends. ‘I literally just fixed him up! I blink for a second – ’

‘Good man, Harry!’ roared Hagrid. ‘Right then – let’s see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.’

He untied one of the chains, pulled the grey Hippogriff away from his fellows and slipped off his leather collar.

The class on the other side of the paddock seemed to be holding its breath. Draco narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

‘Easy now, Harry,’ said Hagrid. ‘Yeh’ve got eye contact, now try not ter blink – Hippogriffs don’ trust yeh if yeh blink too much…’

‘Makes two of us,’ mumbled Draco. Behind him, Pansy snorted.

Harry stared at the monster unblinkingly, and Draco shuffled his feet. If Potter’d stared at him the way he was staring at the animal, Draco’s knees would not have held him anymore. His eyes could make anyone bow.

‘Ten Galleons the bird eats Hagrid,’ whispered Blaise Zabini next to them. Shuddering, he looked away. ‘I don’t like birds.’

Buckbeak had turned his great, sharp head, and was staring at Harry with one fierce orange eye.

‘Ten Galleons he’ll hurt Potter,’ hissed Pansy.

‘Ten if Draco runs to heal him,’ added Imogen Stratton.

The Slytherins all sniggered. Draco just glared at them, then quickly fixed his eyes back on Potter.

‘Tha’s it,’ said Hagrid. ‘Tha’s it, Harry… now, bow…’

Draco hated this assignment. He wouldn’t have liked Potter bowing for anything, let alone a straight-out monster. Exposing the bare neck of Harry Potter to something thrice his size, with claws and a beak like an eagle, did not sound like a suitable curriculum to Draco. This beast could peck him up like a snack and take off before anyone could blink, and then it would be goodnight Vienna to the Saviour of the Wizarding World.

‘Ten if Draco hexes Hagrid,’ mumbled Vincent.

Another round of laughs from his friends. Draco was a little too worried to respond. The Hippogriff was still staring haughtily at Potter. It didn’t move.

‘Ah,’ said Hagrid, finally sounding worried too. ‘Right – back away, now, Harry, easy does it –’

Draco reached for his wand.

He imagined himself saving The Boy Who Lived. Everyone panicking, but Draco Malfoy kept his cool, strutting over to Episkey the heck out of Harry Potter. It would be all over the news. His parents would collect the newspaper clippings in an album to show all their friends, but whenever anyone mentioned it, Draco would just say ‘Oh right, that happened… It was nothing really.’

The Hippogriff bent his scaly front knees, and sank into what was an unmistakeable bow.

Draco put back his wand, feeling relief and disappointment at the same time.

‘Well done, Harry!’ said Hagrid, ecstatically. ‘Right – yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!’

‘Sure,’ Draco muttered, ‘push his luck straight out of the ballpark, why don’t you? Gamble with his life, who cares? It’s only The Boy Who Lived.’

His friends sniggered. Draco crossed his arms, scowling. 

Harry moved slowly towards the Hippogriff and reached out towards him. He patted the beak several times and the Hippogriff closed his eyes lazily, as though enjoying it.

The class broke into applause, all except for the Slytherins, who could already guess what would happen next.

‘OK, who else wants a go?’ said Hagrid, predictably.

Exchanging last looks, the Slytherins took deep breaths and dragged themselves up to the beasts.

‘We’ll take that one,’ Draco decided when it was his turn to convince the monster not to kill them, nodding at the monster that had bowed for Harry Potter. ‘I trust the others even less.’

Draco locked eyes with it and didn’t blink. He bowed and the bird bowed. Feeling entirely bored with the subject by then, Draco swaggered over to pat the bird’s beak.

‘This is very easy,’ he drawled, looking around. ‘I knew it must have been, if Potter could do it…’ He shared a smirk with Vincent and Gregory. ‘I bet you’re not dangerous at all, are you?’ Draco chatted. ‘Are you, you ugly great brute?’

It happened in a flash of steely talons; Draco let out a high-pitched scream, feeling pain like he had never felt before. Next moment, Hagrid was wrestling Buckbeak back into his collar as he strained to get at Draco, who lay curled in the grass, blood blossoming over his robes.

His arm hurt like nothing had ever hurt in his life… until he stopped feeling anything at all; which was somehow worse. He read about that. ‘I’m dying!’ he yelled. ‘It’s killed me!’

Harry Potter knelt down beside him. ‘Episkey,’ he tried, to no avail. ‘Episkey! Stop yelling!’ He held Draco’s arm tight. ‘You’re making it worse, you dramatic bastard.’

‘I’m dying, look at me!’

Draco panicked seeing his own blood gushing from his arm. He tried not to look at the wound, but couldn’t stop himself from wanting to find out how bad it was.

‘Yer not dyin’!’ said Hagrid. ‘Someone help me – gotta get him out ta here –’

Hagrid lifted him like he weighed nothing. While Draco stared at his own blood splattering the grass, Hagrid ran with him, up the slope towards the castle. It made Draco feel nauseous and light in the head. His blood splattered the castle tiles. Two or three people bent their heads around as they passed them through the corridors and up the stairs to the Hospital Wing.

Madam Pomfrey hardly flinched when she spotted them. Draco got dropped on a bed, whimpering in shock at the sight of his mutilated arm. He couldn’t move it anymore, and that scared the living daylight out of him. His own arm felt like a prop.

Pomfrey started casting healing spells and tiny pinpricks made their way from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers. The pinpricks grew into painful stabs, until a hot shot of pain surged through him like an icy knife. He tried to get away from the pain, screaming and writhing so badly Hagrid had to hold him still, but there was no escaping his own body. Tears streaming down his face, he vainly tried to kick Pomfrey away and yank himself free from Hagrid.

Almost as quickly as it came up, the aching faded. Madame Pomfrey’s hands wiped his face dry. ‘Brave boy. The worst is over. Here, drink this.’

He felt cold glass on his lips and messily swallowed. A sob escaped him, out of relief and left-over shock, and he felt himself collapsing when someone caught him. Still feeling shocked, he finally became aware of his surroundings and heard someone cry.

‘Draco…’ Pansy’s voice broke. She pulled him close, shaking from crying. ‘You stupid sod.’

Too dazed to talk, he put his good arm around the small of her back and allowed himself to lean on her.

Slowly, his body started realising the danger was gone. First his muscles relaxed, one by one. Then his breathing went from sobbing heaves to panting and gradually slowed down to heavy, but steady breathing. His heart was still racing, but it wasn’t pounding out of his chest anymore. 

His arm – Draco looked at the bloodied skin, his ripped robes and trembling fingers – his arm worked again. It throbbed and ached; it was alive.

Footsteps on the tiles. Voices in the distance. Sunlight playing on white linen. Roosters crowing outside.

‘That really hurt,’ Draco muttered.

Pansy stroked his head and flashed a watery smile. ‘I noticed.’

‘Oh Pansy,’ he suddenly remembered, ‘I’m going to be a Healer.’

She sat down next to him on the bed. Draco lay his head on her shoulder.

‘That would make me so proud,’ said Pansy, holding his hand. ‘I’d be boasting about you all the time. Mention my friend who’s a healer every other sentence until nobody wants to talk to me again… There’s really infinite ways to annoy people; sometimes it baffles me.’

Draco felt his breathing slowing down. It had never felt so nice to just breath and not feel pain. He sipped his drink until it was all gone.

‘Harry positively _ran_ to save you,’ whispered Pansy; Draco heard the smile in her voice. ‘He worships you.’

‘Does not,’ whispered Draco, too tired to argue.

‘It’s really obvious. He laughs at your stupid jokes. He stares at you all the time. I bet he’s going to visit you here, for no reason at all; you never visit him. Why aren’t you nicer to him?’

‘Stop… talking…’

It was a fair question, though. Why was he so mean to Harry Potter? Perhaps it was overcompensation, he supposed. There just wasn’t a way to casually talk to Harry J. Potter without showing how much he idolised the boy.

After sitting there quietly for ages, Madame Pomfrey came back with bandages. Silent with awe, Draco followed the motions with which she wrapped them around his wrist, his thumb, his forearm and his elbow.

‘I love you,’ he told her.

‘That’s the painkiller,’ Madame Pomfrey told Pansy.

Draco didn’t understand what she meant, but let it flow away from him like clouds in a storm.

‘Do you think I have jug ears?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Pansy. ‘They look cute.’

‘You look cute.’

A mean smile appeared on Pansy’s face. ‘Draco?’

‘Your nose looks funny.’

‘I know, darling. Tell me,’ she grabbed his face. ‘What’s your opinion on Harry Potter?’

Draco smiled. ‘Harry’s my homeboy.’

It was a word he’d heard Jason the Mudblood use. It meant: ‘boy you feel at home with,’ Draco assumed.

‘Should I ask him out for you?’ asked Pansy, smirking.

Draco frowned. ‘The lady never asks the gentleman, Pansington. Mind your P’s and Q’s.’

Grunting, she let go of him. ‘Useless Malfoy.’

. . .

On Sunday morning, after a long, long night and an even longer week, Draco was staring out of the far window to the square of solid blue that was his only outlook on life these days. During the past hours, he’d watched it turn from black to ink blue, to indigo, to –

Somebody interrupted his view – to put something on his nightstand.

‘Potter,’ Draco heard himself ascertain while the boy tiptoed away.

Harry jumped.

‘What time is it?’ The sun was barely up. Draco had been there to see it happen. ‘You have no idea how much I’m suffering, Potter. The _night_ I just had… I’ve been awake for _ages_ , absolutely ages. This room is too darn light, I’m telling you. I told Miss _Useless_ over there, more than once to be exact, but she flat out refuses to install some blinds. I’d _kill_ for some curtains right now, literally kill, Potter, how did you put up with it? Do they have a special room for celebrities? If that’s the case, I deserve to stay there too. I’m Draco bleeding Malfoy, tell her that. And those worthless painkillers only work for, like, the blink of an eye, I keep waking up in pain. It’s all agony, Harry, absolute agony. Anyway, why are you here?’

Harry was beaming. ‘No reason,’ he said after a few seconds of baffled silence. ‘Brought you some stuff.’

He looked around for a place to sit and Draco moved over. When Harry Potter sat down on Draco’s bed Draco couldn’t help but feel victorious.

‘How’s your arm?’ Potter asked.

Draco scowled. ‘My arm’s fine! You know, there is a person behind the arm.’

The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched. ‘Oh, right.’ He leaned closer to Draco’s arm. ‘How’s Draco?’

‘Oh, such a hoot, Potter, spare me.’

Draco stretched his good arm to Harry’s gifts on the nightstand. ‘Oh Merlin… you brought _Vanity thy name is Vampire_ , that’s…’ Draco felt himself smiling, although trying very hard to pull it together. ‘I love that one – Oh!’

Spotting the speculoos, Draco slammed it on the top of the nightstand to break it in half, and he handed Harry a piece.

Harry shook his head. ‘I need to go back.’

‘Why?’ Draco sneered. ‘Oh, so important _,_ you are. What appointments do you have then, Scarhead, at 7 am on Sunday morning?’

Harry looked at him with a marvellously torn face. It was one of the things Draco liked about him: how easy it was to read the boy.

‘Spit it out,’ he said. ‘You’re a hopeless bottler-upper, Potter. I can tell.’

‘ _You’re_ a hopeless _faker_.’ Harry nodded angrily at Draco’s arm. ‘Why are you trying to get Hagrid sacked? Buckbeak didn’t harm anyone before you came along. You shouldn’t have insulted him. If you didn’t talk every minute of every day, you would have heard Hagrid tell us you shouldn’t insult them.’

‘Yuck Potter, you sound like my mother. She’s always saying I’m too loud.’ Pouting his lips, Draco put on a high pitched voice and stroked his hair behind his ear. “‘It is not _becoming_ to talk so much, Draconius.”’

Harry snorted. ‘ _Draconius_?’

‘Forget it.’

‘Oh, never.’

‘It’s just a nickname. And please tell me: _when_ did I _insult_ it?’

He’d been nice to the animal. He’d been patting it, talking to it, all quite lovingly, as he recalled.

‘You called it an ugly great brute,’ said Harry.

Draco stared at him, biting his tongue to ask: ‘So?’ before remembering ‘ugly’ and ‘brute’ were considered insults by the commoners, and not in fact ‘loving’. Wound up so tightly, some people…

‘Yes… Right, well… It’s an animal. How could I know it understands English? And by the way, Potter, I’m not trying to get Hagrid sacked, my parents are. You wouldn’t know of course, but that’s what parents do. They overreact.’

Draco knew damn well it was a _faux-pas_ to mention Potter’s parents, so he braced himself.

Harry’s eyes almost shot fire. ‘Oh sure, and you can do nothing to stop them of course, powerless against mommy and daddy.’

Again, Potter made it blatantly clear had never experienced parents; Father’s fury after getting Dumbledore’s letter about Draco’s wound was still bright in Draco’s memory. Both his parents had almost come over at once to be with him or take him away, even if Father had to miss all kinds of important meetings at the Ministry and Mother had to come back all the way from France. It was nice to feel like a top priority, Draco thought. 

‘Sarcasm is not a good look on you, Potter. I'll have you know that they gave me two options: I let them at it or I get transferred to Beauxbatons.’

‘What’s–…’

‘It’s the French Hogwarts.’

All Potter’s anger seemed to dissolve into confusion. ‘How… But… won’t they speak French?’

Draco smirked. ‘My word, Potter, now that you mention it, I actually wouldn’t even be surprised if they did!’

‘I mean…’ Harry sighed. ‘How could you follow classes there? You wouldn’t understand anything.’

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Oh Harry, for the millionth time: I’m a Malfoy. Obviously, I speak French.’

Harry snorted. ‘Yeah, right…’

‘I do!’

‘Say something then.’

Draco squinted, then smirked again. ‘ _Qu'est-ce que tu veux que je dise_?

Harry’s chin dropped. Draco marvelled at the sight.

Then the boy shook his head. ‘You know one sentence. That doesn’t prove anything.’

‘ _Je peux certainement dire plus d'une phrase, hibou.’_

Harry stared at him, quite shamelessly. It made Draco’s heart jump.

‘ _Je suis si fou de toi_ ,’ Draco blurted out, smiling. ‘ _Je ne sais pas pourquoi tu es toujours surpris. Je suis brilliant.’_

‘Stop it!’ Harry shook his head and looked away. ‘You’re infuriating.’

Draco leaned closer to him, trying to catch Potter’s eye again. Life was so much better when Draco saw himself through Harry’s eyes. ‘ _Je me noie dans tes yeux.’_

‘Don’t think I don’t know that you’re insulting me right now!’

Draco laughed. Stupid Potter!

‘But I can do this too, remember?’ said Harry, lifting his chin and staring intensely at Draco’s pyjama shirt. Soft hissing noises started sounding from his tongue, slow, enigmatic, hypnotizing.

Harry glanced at Draco, who couldn’t look away, and started hissing again, making Draco feel increasingly awestruck – until he felt like closing the distance between them and doing something really… queer.

Quickly, he tore his gaze away. ‘Yeah, alright! Made your point!’ Draco leaned back in his pillows.

It made Harry laugh. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw him take some speculoos and throwing him a piece too.

He chewed it as if it was a way to crush his excessive admiration for the Boy Who Lived. He really ought to have gotten used to the only celebrity in his school, Draco thought. It wasn’t as if he’d never met any famous people; his parents introduced him to them all the time. He’d known Potter for over two years now, but it seemed to be getting _worse_ instead of easier to talk to him.

‘Okay so if you’re not trying to get Hagrid sacked, why are you still here?’ asked Harry. ‘Isn’t it time to go back to school? Or didn’t you get enough attention yet?’

Draco shot him his worst glare. ‘You actually think I’m here for _attention_? I’ve never had _less_ attention than I have in here. Everyone abandons me. I'm so _bored_ , Potter. If I could leave I would, but that… fascist nurse is insisting I stay, and my _parents_ …’

‘That’s ridiculous, why would they keep you? It’s just a scratch, right?’

‘That’s what I keep saying! But it’s that wretched _red line._ They’re all going bonkers about the red line.’

Harry looked so dumb. He would probably never understand what Draco was talking about until he showed him. So Draco started to unbutton his pyjama shirt to show Harry the red line on his upper arm.

It had appeared the day after the attack. Draco’d been packed and ready to leave the Hospital Wing when Madame Pomfrey spotted it. Sure, he’d felt feverish and miserable, and sure, the red line had hurt and concerned Draco, but to keep him tied to the bed for days on end was straight out excessive.

Potter leaned closer… and he touched Draco’s skin, making him feel a great swoop of nerves in his stomach. Harry’s fingers were positively glowing. Before he realized, Draco imagined how nice it would be to feel those warm hands on –

Startled, Draco quickly buttoned up again. ‘It’s creeping up higher every hour, and they say if it reaches my heart I die,’ he drawled. ‘Such rubbish. It’s probably some useless Muggle myth, but my parents wouldn’t risk it, no matter if it was written in crayon by an elephant at the London Zoo.’

The few seconds he’d been shirtless in the cold Hospital Wing were enough to make Draco shiver. If only his own hands were as warm as Potter’s… In a split second, Draco decided – it couldn’t hurt; Harry Potter was too dumb to think anything of it anyway.

He showed him his hand, casually saying, ‘Oh, look at this.’

Harry literally looked at it. Impatiently, Draco wiggled it, so Harry got closer. ‘What am I supposed to see?’

‘What, you don’t see it?’

And Potter grabbed Draco’s hand! Success!

It wasn’t just the tips of his fingers: both of Potter’s entire hands felt like hot packs. The warmth of them glowed straight through to Draco’s bones and warmed up his entire body. His skin tingled as Harry ran his fingers over the lines in Draco’s palm, the top of his hand, the bandage, and along his fingers to stretch them.

Draco didn’t know where to look: Harry’s furrowed brow over his bright eyes, his filthy, ink stained hands and the dirt underneath his nails, his fantastic lightning scar from up close or his Magic hair, crackling softly like fire in a stove. Draco repressed a shudder.

Frowning, Potter looked up. ‘What am I looking at, Dra?’

Draco sighed deeply. ‘Useless Potter…’ He glanced at the gifts on his table and kept talking to distract himself from the fact that Harry J. Potter was still holding his hand, ‘Anyway, thanks for the snacks and the book. Might entertain me for a few minutes… Merlin, I’ve never been this bored.’

The days were _long_ when locked away in the Hospital Wing. Suddenly an idea popped into his head. ‘Do you think,’ he asked Harry, ‘I could _learn_ Parseltongue?’

A light appeared in Potter’s eyes. ‘Oh no, you wouldn’t like it,’ he said after a second of careful consideration, his voice slow and hoarse as ever. ‘We don’t want to frighten you by looking at the scary snakes, getting you nightmares, now, do we?’ At last, Harry let go of Draco’s hand to pat his head. ‘So don’t go breaking your pretty little head over grown-up stuff, Draconius, having silly dreams of doing things that are much too difficult for you. Best to stay safely in bed, listen to mommy and daddy and let the sweet nurse take care of you.’

Draco didn’t know what to feel. ‘It’s scary how well you know how to rile me, Potter,’ he muttered huffily.

Harry grinned. ‘Yes, well, lots of things scare you, don’t they?’

Draco grabbed his wand and Harry ducked away, howling with laughter.

‘Just get me a book on Parseltongue! I hate you, Potter!’

. . .

It was Thursday, Draco calculated. Four days since Harry came to visit. Two since he dropped off the book on Parseltongue in between classes. Draco had opened it at once, pressing his nose almost against the pages to read, when Harry Potter had taken his chin to make him look up into his eyes, grinning broadly, but trying to look stern. ‘Don’t stay up too late reading it.’

It had taken him all his strength, but Draco hadn’t said a word about Potter visiting to his friends. They teased him enough with his weird interest in the boy already.

But today was Thursday, which meant Potions. He’d already missed Potions last week, which was inevitable since he’d been drooling all over everyone to profess them his undying love, but no way was he going to miss it again today.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Madame Pomfrey came bustling out of her office.

‘I’m taking off,’ Draco grumbled while getting dressed, ‘and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

His arm still hurt, especially as he twisted it into his blouse. Madame Pomfrey caught sight of his hurting face before he could hide it, so Draco grabbed his wand. ‘I’m going to Potions, even if it’s the last thing I do.’

Pomfrey all but rolled her eyes at him. ‘Wait here, foolish boy, I’ll get you a sling.’

Before Draco could finish getting dressed, she got back with her supplies.

‘Do you like Potions so much then?’ She glanced up at him as she bound up his arm in a sling. ‘Or is there a special someone?’ She was smiling quite wickedly.

‘Very special,’ Draco drawled, ‘called Wat Zit Tooya.’ He pulled away from the nosy trollop. ‘I can finish this myself, thanks.’

Pomfrey pressed him back on the bed with surprising force. As she fussed over him, Draco scowled and looked away the entire time.

Finally, she allowed Draco to go to class. He was only slightly late, which was actually better, he thought. He’d be able to make a big entrance that way.

The minute Draco swaggered into the dungeon, Pansy jumped up. ‘How is it, Draco?’ she simpered. ‘Does it hurt much?’

The little hypocrite had hardly showed her face at the Hospital Wing.

‘Yeah,’ said Draco, putting on a brave sort of grimace as he felt everyone’s eyes on him. He only cared about one pair of eyes, really. Harry Potter scowled, apparently taking Draco’s act far too seriously. Quickly, Draco winked. Potter shook his head, and his scowl vanished at once.

‘Settle down, settle down,’ said Professor Snape.

Draco had no intention at all to simply settle down. ‘Watch this,’ he mumbled to Vincent and Gregory, and he set up his cauldron right next to Potter’s, so that they were preparing their ingredients on the same table.

‘Sir,’ Draco called, ‘sir, I’ll need help cutting up these daisy roots, because of my arm –’

‘Weasley, cut up Draco’s roots for him,’ said Snape, without looking up.

Weasley went brick red. ‘There’s nothing wrong with your arm,’ he hissed at Draco.

Draco smirked across the table. ‘Weasley, you heard Professor Snape, cut up these roots.’

Weasley seized his knife, pulled Draco’s roots towards him and began to chop them roughly, so that they were all different sizes.

‘Professor,’ drawled Draco, ‘Weasley’s mutilating my roots, sir.’

Snape approached their table, stared down his hooked nose at the roots, then gave Weasley an unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black hair. ‘Change roots with Draco, Weasley.’

‘But sir –!’

‘Now,’ said Snape in his most dangerous voice.

Weasley shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the table at Draco, then took up the knife again.

‘And, sir, I’ll need this Shrivelfig skinned,’ said Draco, his voice full of malicious laughter.

‘Potter, you can skin Draco’s Shrivelfig,’ said Snape, giving Harry a look of loathing.

Harry put down his knife to shoot Draco a tired look. ‘For real?’

Draco was smirking broadly.

Potter took Draco’s Shrivelfig, as Weasley set about trying to repair the damage to the roots he now had to use. ‘You could’ve just asked…’

Potter skinned the Shrivelfig as fast as he could and flung it back across the table at Draco without speaking. 

‘Seen your pal Hagrid lately?’ Draco asked them quietly.

‘None of your business,’ said Weasley jerkily, without looking up.

‘I’m afraid he won’t be a teacher much longer,’ said Draco, in a tone of mock sorrow. ‘Father’s not very happy about my injury –’

‘Keep talking, Malfoy, and I’ll give you a real injury,’ snarled Weasley.

‘– he’s complained to the school governors. And to the Ministry of Magic. Father’s got a lot of influence, you know. And a lasting injury like this –’ he gave a huge, fake sigh, ‘who knows if my arm’ll ever be the same again?’

‘So that _is_ why you’re putting it on?’ asked Harry, accidentally beheading a dead caterpillar because his hands were shaking in anger. ‘To try and get Hagrid sacked?’

‘Well,’ said Draco, ‘partly, Potter. But there are other benefits, too. Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me.’

Draco wasn’t sure if he should be ducking away from Potter or if the boy was about to laugh. To make sure it wouldn’t be the first, Draco concentrated on remembering what he’d learned. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he started making the hissing noises the book taught him.

It seemed to confuse Potter. ‘Er…’ he replied. ‘I’m fine, you?’

Draco almost cheered. ‘Did I say it right? It’s very difficult, Parseltongue.’

‘Oh!’ Harry’s face lit up. ‘That's great! Can you say more?’

‘Not yet…’

Harry’s hair had crackled again, and glancing at it, Draco noticed it looked even worse than usual. ‘Merlin, Harry, you've got caterpillar in your hair.’ Before he could stop himself, Draco leaned across the table to pick it out. Only when he was doing it, he realised he was actually touching Harry Potter’s Magical hair. Flicking the caterpillar away, he quickly regrouped: ‘You disgust me.’

Some Gryffindor leaned over to borrow Harry’s brass scales. ‘Hey, Harry,’ he said, ‘have you heard? Daily Prophet this morning – they reckon Sirius Black’s been sighted.’

Draco’s ears pricked up.

‘Where?’ said Potter and Weasley. 

‘Not too far from here,’ said the Gryffindor, who looked excited. ‘It was a Muggle who saw him. ’Course, she didn’t really understand. The Muggles think he’s just an ordinary criminal, don’t they? So she phoned the telephone hotline. By the time the Ministry of Magic got there, he was gone.’

‘Not too far from here…’ Weasley repeated, looking significantly at Harry. He turned around and saw Draco watching closely. ‘What, Malfoy? Need something else skinning?’

But Draco’s eyes were shining malevolently, and they were fixed on Harry. He leaned across the table. ‘Thinking of trying to catch Black single-handed, Potter?’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Harry offhandedly.

Draco was dying to know what went on inside his head, but this time, he couldn’t read anything from Potter’s face.

‘Of course, if it was me,’ Draco said quietly, ‘I’d have done something before now. I wouldn’t be staying in school like a good boy, I’d be out there looking for him.’

‘What are you talking about, Malfoy?’ said Weasley roughly.

He _had_ to have some thoughts on the traitor that caused the deaths of his parents, Draco reckoned – unless…

‘You don’t know, Potter?’ breathed Draco.

‘Know what?’

Draco let out a low, sneering laugh. ‘Maybe you’d rather not risk your neck,’ he thought out loud. ‘Want to leave it to the Dementors, do you? If it was me, I’d want revenge. I’d hunt him down myself.’

‘Please just tell me what you are talking about,’ said Harry angrily, but at that moment Snape called to finish up.

Harry Potter didn’t know about Sirius Black!

When Draco passed Potter and his friends at the Marble Staircase, he smirked at him. He looked furious. Maybe he’d look Draco up again to ask him what he knew, like he did last year in the library. Draco looked forward to it already.

. . .

The first Hogsmeade trip of the year was planned for the weekend of Halloween. Pansy had a lot to say about it.

‘It’s just meant to go on dates,’ she complained, cradling Nimbostratus. ‘There’s so much pressure on dating nowadays…’

Draco snorted. ‘Ah yes, those olden days of glory, before dating existed… I remember them well.’

‘As if you’re not eager for the chance,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m all alone in this. My fate in this life.’

‘Eager for the chance to _date_?’ Draco snarled. ‘Who in Merlin’s name would I be _eager_ to awkwardly sit at a table with?’

She cast him a tired look. ‘You can’t think of anyone, can you?’

Well… not in a _dating_ kind of way, Draco thought. Suddenly, his insides went cold. He stared at Pansy.

It made her frown. ‘Spit it out,’ she drawled.

‘Don’t tell me, Pansy… You want me to date _you_?’

Slowly, Pansy’s entire face lit up and she started laughing louder than he ever heard her laugh before. Nimbostratus took off. ‘Darling, please, I beg you, no,’ she said as soon as she calmed down enough to breath. ‘Oh, you idiot. I was talking about The Boy Who Lived, my dear, whom you have been ardently pining for since you first laid eyes on him.’

Draco felt his cheeks go bright red. ‘Merlin, woman, control your silly fantasies. I’m not _–_ ’

‘How would you call it then?’ she asked, grabbing this distraction from her own worries about “the pressure on dating” with both hands. ‘Smitten?’ she offered. ‘Lovelorn? Bewitched? Infatuated? Horn– ’

‘Shut up, Pansy! I hardly know the guy! Why in Merlin’s name would you think – ?’

She raised one eyebrow; she’d truly mastered that art. ‘You really want an answer to that?’

‘No. Absolutely not, thank you very much. Was it Rotilda again? No matter, I’m going to get some food for the road. _Goodbye_ , Pansington.’

Draco steered well clear of her for the rest of the day. When Vincent, Gregory and Draco left for Hogsmeade, Filch, the caretaker, was standing inside the front doors at the Entrance Hall, checking off names against a long list, peering suspiciously into every face, and making sure that no one was sneaking out who shouldn’t be going.

Crabbe and Goyle were going over their plans for the day when Draco spotted Harry Potter stalking back up the stairs. ‘Staying here, Potter?’ he shouted impulsively. ‘Scared of passing the Dementors?’

Faintly smiling, Harry blew him a kiss and showed him his middle finger in one move.

Draco’s insides jolted and a hotness spread from his chest all through his body. He did not know where to look. The feeling was hard to shake.

‘It’s not smitten,’ he snapped at Vincent and Gregory, who weren’t even paying attention. ‘Just… embarrassment.’

There must be a word for the way Harry Potter made him feel, he thought. It probably had to do with the boy’s status in the wizarding world.

‘Oh Merlin!’ His friends jumped from his sudden outburst. ‘I’m not – ’ Draco stared at them in horror. ‘Do you think I might be… a _fan_?’ he hissed. 

That was worse!

His fear was met with glazy eyes from his friends.

‘Why isn’t he going to Hogsmeade?’ he wondered out loud, squinting in suspicion. ‘Is it really the Dementors, you think?’ That sounded insane, Potter was fearless. ‘Or do you reckon it’s because of Sirius Black?’

Crabbe shrugged.

He snorted. ‘I bet Weasley and Granger are going together and didn’t want Potter around.’

‘Right,’ mumbled Gregory.

‘He could have gone along with me – with us,’ he quickly corrected.

It did not slip his attention how Vincent and Gregory exchanged a look. They did not seem keen to share their afternoon with Potter.

The rest of the day, Draco tried to enjoy the trip to Hogsmeade, but the back of his mind kept wandering off to the lack of Potter around. Why did he stay behind?

That evening, Draco was so glad to spot Harry walking into the Great Hall again that he jumped up to shout at him, ‘The Dementors send their love, Potter!’

From further down the table Pansy called, ‘Next time, do us all a favour and ask him out!’

Draco, face feeling red-hot, fired his most vicious slapping jinx her way, while the entirety of the Slytherin table roared with laughter.

At least Harry hadn’t heard. He was telling his friends something, while smiling softly.

. . .

There had been strong winds and heavy rain all day. They were playing Gryffindor that weekend and the entire team was dreading it. 

‘Your arm still hurt?’ Marcus Flint asked Draco at breakfast that week.

The sudden concern for his health startled Draco. Flint never talked to him, let alone nicely.

‘You can’t play this weekend, right?’ Flint was nodding so fervently that Draco followed his lead. He might have agreed to play naked if Marcus told him to.

‘Attaboy,’ Flint grumbled, slamming Draco’s painful arm before storming off.

He shared a baffled look with Vincent and Gregory. They shrugged.

That afternoon the three of them ran into Oliver Wood, flanked by the Weasley twins, in the East Wing. Wood’s faces contorted with rage when he spotted Draco, and before he realised what happened, the guy was shouting in his face.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your arm!’ The twins hung at his arms to hold him back. ‘Your faking it!

‘What’s the matter, Wood?’ Draco pushed Crabbe and Goyle aside, smirking around at them. ‘Scared of a little competition?’

The twins shared a look, then suddenly let go of their friend. In an instant, the great lump had seized Draco’s shirt and Crabbe and Goyle had to jump in front of Draco to make Wood stop trying to strangle him.

Meanwhile, the twins crossed their arms. ‘Not so cocky now, ay?’ smirked one of them.

‘We’ll see how happy you’ll look after we beat you,’ said the other.

Crabbe and Goyle had succeeded in pushing Wood away.

‘I’ll get you for this!’ shouted Wood as the twins ushered him away, saying, ‘Calm down, Oliver.’

‘Yeah, mind your blood pressure.’

Draco rearranged his robes. ‘What was that all about?’

It wasn’t until they got back at the Common Room that evening, that they found out what it had been all about.

‘We’re not playing this weekend,’ Peregrine Derrick, the team’s Beater, told him. ‘Apparently, our Seeker’s arm is still too injured.’ He was laughing.

‘Our Seek– Are you saying the match is cancelled because of me?’

Peregrine shrugged, looking at Lucian Bole, the other Beater, who smirked and added, ‘Don’t wanna ruin our chances, playing with this weather.’

Draco laughed scathingly, as Vincent and Gregory guffawed. ‘Genius!’

The day before the match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, the winds reached howling point and the rain fell harder than ever. It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit.

‘Ah, if only my arm was feeling a bit better!’ Draco sighed when he crossed paths with Harry Potter at the stairs.

The gale outside pounded the windows.

Potter grabbed Draco’s good arm. ‘You let me down, Dra,’ he said with exaggerated disappointment.

Draco smirked, not knowing what to say to that.

Harry leaned closer to him. ‘Is the red line gone?’

Draco leaned closer still. ‘They said rain would bring it back,’ he jeered.

. . .

The good news was that Gryffindor lost. The bad news was that Draco had jumped up and screamed when Harry Potter fell off his broomstick as Dementors had flooded the field – _en plein public._

‘It’s a normal reaction!’ he roared that night at Vincent, Gregory, Pansy and every Slytherin at hearing distance making fun of him. ‘When someone almost dies, people with brains show a response!’

Pansy took his hand and led him out of the Common Room. ‘Ignore the bastards –’

‘You’re one of them!’

‘– Let’s check up on your homeboy.’

Draco made a quick calculation. Knowing the visiting hours by heart after days in isolation, he knew the Hospital Wing would be deserted by now. It might be safe.

‘I thought it looked creepy too,’ Pansy admitted to him on the way to the Hospital Wing. Nimbostratus followed at her ankles.

Draco felt miserable. ‘Slytherins are not supposed– ’

‘Don’t let the bastards get you down, Draconius. You’ve got _spunk_. And, you know, _you_ might feel bad for liking Potter, but everyone else is pretty neutral about it. They all love you. You can make the entire house laugh, so we all just want you to be happy. Don’t ever change, my darling.’

Draco wrapped his arm around her neck to kiss her on the head.

They reached the Hospital Wing, and Draco slowed down to peek around the doorway. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where is that dumbass?’ He edged inside to see the beds on the other side of the room, then gasped and whirled around to leave again.

‘What?’ Pansy took a look too and Draco watched her eyes go big. She managed to muffle her laughter, dashing out again and almost stumbling over Nimbostratus.

‘Ssh!’ Draco’s forehead bumped into Pansy’s, trying to stifle the sounds of her shrieking laughter. ‘It’s not funny!’

‘Your face!’ she hissed, barely able to breath.

‘He’s _naked_!’ Draco hissed back.

Pansy was never going to calm down again. ‘No, he’s not naked! It’s only his back!’

Draco tucked his hands under his armpits. In an effort to regain some dignity, he decided to simply keep quiet.

Pansy pushed him through the doorway again. ‘Look,’ she hissed. ‘It’s just his back.’

Draco glanced stealthily. Harry Potter was lying on his stomach on the hospital bed, fast asleep with one arm under his pillow and the other dangling on the side. The white linen bedsheet covered only the lower half of his body, leaving his shirtless back exposed. 

Apparently, Boys Who Lived did not need pyjama shirts like Malfoys did. Recalling the temperature of Harry’s hands, this should not have come as a surprise to Draco. The boy was a human campfire.

Pansy hooked her chin on Draco’s shoulder, holding his hand.

Harry’s back though, Draco thought, when did he…

‘He’s…’ Draco uttered, ‘toned.’

With a nervous giggle, Pansy broke away from him. ‘Oliver Wood must be working them like dogs.’

Footsteps came their way and they hurried off, safely back to the Dungeons.

. . .

To make up for his blunder in front of the Slytherins, Draco increased his efforts to make fun of Harry Potter. There was no denying that it was pretty hilarious that The Boy Who Lived – Saviour of the Wizarding World, a guy who’s back looked so toned, who won every match and defeated the Dark Lord time and again – kept fainting because of some cloaked figures. Sure, they looked scary, but not nearly enough to _faint_. 

When Draco was finally allowed to take off his bandages, he celebrated having the full use of both arms again by doing spirited imitations of Harry falling off his broom. He spent much of their next Potions class doing Dementor imitations to make his friends laugh, until Weasley cracked and flung a large, slippery crocodile heart at Draco. It hit him in the face and caused Snape to take fifty points from Gryffindor.

Harry Potter laughed louder than anyone.

. . .

‘Lou…?’ Pansy muttered to her gang of girls. They were struggling with their Runes homework at the table nearest to the fire. ‘Who in Merlin’s name is Lou now?’

‘It’s not an L, nincompoop, it’s a Y,’ Draco lazily remarked from his chair. He’d finished the assignment days ago, but Pansy always left her homework until the last minute.

‘It could be either!’ Pansy snapped. Nimbostratus meowed in agreement.

‘Stupid tart.’

‘If you’re so – ’

Wide-eyed, she fell silent. In fact, the entire common room fell quiet in a way that made Draco reach for his wand. He turned around to follow everyone’s gaze.

And there was Harry J. Potter, standing in the middle of their common room. Draco’s heart leaped up in his throat. Potter looked bigger than usual, with eyes shooting fire, his legs apart and his arms spread as if he was ready to cast a spell at anyone willing to fight.

‘You’ve got some nerve, Potter!’ Draco snarled, jumping out of his chair in case he needed to defend his homeboy against his House mates.

In two steps Harry’d reached him and was pushing him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?!’

A dozen wands were pointed at him. Obviously, the boy had no clue of the risk he’d put himself in, but Draco knew. He grabbed Harry’s arm and tried to shield him from the most dangerous students. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Potter, but you’re embarrassing yourself.’

Draco glared at Alexander Orlando – seventh year-Prefects should’ve known better then to aim wands at third-year celebrities – and pulled Harry out of harm’s way into the corridor outside of the Common Room.

‘You should change the password,’ Potter grumbled.

‘We haven’t changed it since Suzie Pelt had a vicious stalker in 1978. No one who wants to live is foolish enough to enter the Slytherin common room uninvited. We take care of our own.’

Draco wandered into an empty classroom further down the corridor. Shutting the door, he snarled, ‘What’s your problem?’

Potter made to attack him again, but Draco – having become used to defending himself last year – swiftly put up a shielding charm.

Harry got as close to him as he could, pushing against the charm in frustration. ‘What do you know about Sirius Black?’

Draco lifted his eyebrows. At last Harry had actually come to ask Draco, like he had hoped so long ago.

‘You mean how he told The Dark Lord where your blood traitor family was hiding?’

Furious, Harry took out his wand, but Draco put his away and sat down on a table.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Harry repeated, even louder this time.

Draco shrugged. ‘I only heard last summer. Took it you knew.’

‘You knew perfectly well I didn’t know.’

Draco did not have a solid answer to that. He gathered he’d better keep quiet about trying to lure Potter to him. Best to change the subject: ‘You want revenge?’

Potter slumped down on the table. Draco lifted the shield charm and Harry’s shoulder bumped into Draco’s when he moved closer. Harry Potter wasn’t just messy in appearance, he was messy in movements too. Harry kicked and thumped his way through life as if wounds and bruises were badges of honour. He bumped into Draco all the time, it was very distracting and unnecessary. During Potions their knees kept touching; as did their hands, elbows, arms and feet. 

‘Ron and Hermione keep saying I shouldn’t,’ he answered Draco’s question. ‘That it would be reckless and that I’m not a killer.’

‘Everyone is a killer, given the right circumstances.’

Harry stared at him. Draco used the opportunity to enjoy the view. He felt happy.

‘I’m so angry,’ Potter said after a while.

‘Rightly so.’

‘I need to _find_ him.’

‘And then what?’

Harry’s eyes lit up in a way that looked almost malicious, and Draco was having the most fun in weeks. Harry Potter was mad at Granger and Weasley and went straight to Draco – to plot a man’s murder. 

‘What will you do when you find him?’ Draco urged.

The next hour, he and Draco planned Harry’s revenge on Sirius Black in the most excruciatingly gruesome, graphically detailed way possible – it was wonderful.

After a while, Harry started smiling and laughing again, and the subject changed to Parseltongue. He tried to teach Draco how to speak it, but it was incredibly difficult. Most of the time Draco was just making random hissing sounds, cracking Harry up. It should have infuriated him, but even though he kept feeling the urge to jinx Harry for laughing at him, Draco could only feel happy.

‘Enough,’ he finally cut off another effort to ask Potter for directions to the train station. He got up. ‘Let’s get something to eat.’

Harry got up too, but shook his head. ‘I need to get back. They don’t know where I am.’

‘So?’ Draco snarled. ‘Will they die without you?’

‘I’ll see you around, Dra,’ said Harry. ‘Thank you.’

He smiled at Draco.

. . .

‘He’s such a jerk!’ screamed Pansy.

They were in their dorm with Crabbe and Goyle. Their other dorm mate, Jason the Mudblood, wasn’t there, but with the volume of Pansy’s screaming, every other Slytherin might as well have been there for how well they could probably hear them.

‘He uses you!’ she roared. ‘You’re his plan B, his afterthought, his back-up friend to make his real friends jealous. I wish you saw him as he is! I hate the guy!’

‘Wandering in here,’ grumbled Crabbe.

‘He’s not welcome.’

‘He can just smile and everything is right in your world, but it isn’t!’

Draco slumped back on his bed.

‘Why are you so angry? I don’t mind.’

‘That’s _exactly_ why I’m angry! You _should_ mind!’

‘You said he liked me and that it was adorable. I don’t understand you.’

‘I have a right to change my mind! Especially if he treats you bad!’

Draco sighed. If he closed his eyes he could still feel Harry’s shoulder against his. He was so nice and warm. Draco was starting to understand that “oozing” Rotilda had mentioned in their first year. Harry Potter oozed warmth; he oozed all sorts of warmth…

‘Draco!’ bellowed Pansy, her voice echoing against the arched walls. ‘Snap out of it, boy!’

Draco leaned on his elbows. ‘Pansy, if you’re in love with me, just say so. Or are you in love with Potter?’ He could get into that.

Pansy facepalmed and let out a deep, deep sigh. ‘I’m warning you, Draconius. Harry Potter is not good for you. Let him go.’

‘Nonsense,’ Draco muttered. ‘Famous people are always good connections.’

‘Not if they’re a one-sided connection, darling.’

‘They aren’t. He came to me, didn’t he?’ And before Pansy could bring him down even more, he added: ‘Now stop yelling at me. It’s wrong use of energy, mother always says. Better bring me something to eat.’

. . .

At Christmas, Harry Potter walked into the Great Hall not only dressed in another marvellous sweater, but with a magnificent, gleaming broomstick too. Draco, together with the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, stood up to stare.

It was a Firebolt. 

When Potter reached the Gryffindor table, he let the handle go. It hung in mid-air, unsupported, at exactly the right height for him to mount it.

‘I can’t believe it!’ said Draco to Vincent and Gregory. They shared the same thunderstruck look as everyone else at the table.

Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Captain, put the broom in the middle of the table and carefully turned it so that its name faced upwards.

People from the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were soon swarming to watch. Cedric Diggory walked over and a Ravenclaw girl was actually allowed to hold it.

‘Let’s go,’ Draco muttered darkly.

Crabbe and Goyle followed at his heel as he swaggered over to the other side of the Great Hall.

‘Sure you can manage that broom, Potter?’

Harry turned around. Draco had never seen him look so smug. ‘Yeah, reckon so,’ he said.

Draco shoved Weasley aside and sat down next to Potter to get a closer look at the broom. ‘Got plenty of special features, hasn’t it?’

Without missing a beat, Harry launched into an epic list of every single feature of the Firebolt. It seemed like he knew the entire manual by heart, and the manual of Draco’s Nimbus Two Thousand And One as well. Draco tested it, by making some features up, and Harry just laughed.

Draco exhausted every possibility to win their discussion of who’s broom was better, but Potter kept refuting Draco’s arguments in defence of the Nimbus Two Thousand And One’s superiority over the Firebolt’s. Draco was in complete aw. 

‘Shame it doesn’t come with a parachute,’ he drawled at last, glancing around at Crabbe and Goyle. ‘In case you get too near a Dementor.’

Harry smiled. ‘Pity you can’t attach an extra arm to yours,’ he said. ‘Then it could catch the Snitch for you.’

The Gryffindor team howled with laughter.

Draco narrowed his eyes. He could think of a dozen replies, but decided to let him this moment.

‘We’ll see,’ he just said, before he stalked away.

Crabbe and Goyle fell into step. ‘Think your father can give us one too?’ asked Gregory. Vincent looked hopefully at Draco.

‘Forget it,’ Draco sighed. ‘Anyway, all of our brooms are still far better than most of theirs.’

As soon as they got near the Slytherin table, Draco got yanked into a hissed meeting with the other members of the Quidditch team. They wanted to know all about the new broom, and thankfully, Draco remembered every word Potter had said and could name each of the features.

‘I’m so jealous,’ moaned Peregrine Derrick.

‘Good job, Malfoy,’ grumbled Flint.

Draco tried to act cool, but felt very imported. Making connections really paid off.

. . .

The next Quidditch match was Gryffindor against Ravenclaw. With Harry Potter owning a Firebolt, it became increasingly vital that Gryffindor lost this match before Slytherin had to play against them. Marcus Flint brought them all together for a brainstorm session to find a way to make sure Gryffindor would lose.

‘Last game they lost,’ said Miles Bletchley, ever the optimist.

‘Because Potter fainted.’ Crabbe sniggered.

‘Exactly!’ said Marcus. ‘Maybe we can get the dementors on the field again? Think of something!’

They all looked at him doubtfully.

‘I think Dumbledore’s made sure they stay away this time.’

‘Don’t think we can outsmart Dumbledore.’

‘Well,’ said Draco, when a hilarious plan started to form in his head. ‘If he’s so scared of them, we might not need the real deal…’ He watched them all one by one with a malicious smirk.

‘What are you talking about, Malfoy?’ snapped Flint.

‘Come on, we can just pretend to be Dementors.’

Slowly, the faces of his teammates lit up, and within seconds, they were all laughing their heads off.

‘That’ll be gold!’

‘Imagine his face!’

‘Scared little Potter! So frightened he faints!’

‘He won’t be so smug when he sees it’s just Malfoy!’

‘Fainting for Malfoy!’

It was decided.

On the day of the match, Vincent, Gregory, Marcus and Draco had put an enlargement charm on their cloaks. Then, Marcus scratched his head. ‘How will we look as tall as a Dementor?’

Draco considered casting the enlargement charm on themselves, but was scared it would damage him permanently. He would hate to look like as gangly as Weasley, or worse: like that oaf Hagrid.

‘I know!’ said Marcus. ‘Malfoy, climb on Greg’s shoulders! We’ll put the cloak around you and it will cover you both!’

Draco glanced at Goyle. ‘Alright, Gregorius?’

He nodded, already turning his back to him. As Draco climbed on the bench in their dressing room, he instructed Crabbe. ‘Vinciento, Flint can sit on your shoulders!’

It was all easier said than done. Draco had never climbed on someone’s shoulders before. Standing on the bench, he tied the massive cloak around himself, then he put his hands on Goyle’s shoulder and pushed himself up. Throwing one foot up so high he feared he dislocated something, he managed to fling his leg over Gregory’s massive shoulders, and almost lost his balance, toppling over backwards again, but he clung onto Goyle’s ugly head and somehow pulled his other leg over Gregory’s shoulder too.

‘ _Voilà_ ,’ Draco muttered.

Marcus was swearing profusely, but eventually he to managed to climb on Crabbe’s shoulders. Draco carefully arranged the cloak so it covered him and Goyle, then shouted, ‘March!’ – roaring with laughter at the prospect of Potter’s face.

‘No! Stop!’ said Marcus. ‘Buffoons, we have to time it right!’

Draco almost lost his balance when Goyle came to a halt and whirled around, grumbling, ‘Who you calling buffoons?’

‘What you mean, time it right?’ growled Vincent.

Swaying in the air, Draco wrapped his arms around Goyle’s big head. ‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘We have to scare Potter when it makes the most impact.’

‘When’s that then?’ Crabbe grunted. Thinking things through annoyed him, Draco knew, he preferred to act fast.

Draco lowered his hood so he could look Crabbe in the eye. ‘The moment he sees the Snitch, so that Chang can catch it while Potter faints.’ 

They all nodded, then started smirking and laughing in anticipation.

As inconspicuous as they could, they made a huge detour, checking every corner to see if the coast was clear, and eventually managed to reach the stands without being seen. Hidden beneath the stands, Marcus kept peeking out of the cloak to see what happened, while Malfoy strained to make out Lee Jordan’s commentary.

‘Gryffindor lead by eighty points to zero, and look at that Firebolt go! Potter’s really putting it through its paces now. See it turn – Chang’s Comet is just no match for it. The Firebolt’s precision-balance is really noticeable in these long –’

‘JORDAN!’ McGonagall cut in. ‘ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!’

Ravenclaw had now scored three goals, which put Gryffindor only fifty points ahead. If Chang got the Snitch before Potter, Ravenclaw would win!

Suddenly, the crowd went wild and Draco shot up. ‘The Snitch!’

‘Now!’ bellowed Marcus, and Crabbe and Goyle stumbled onto the field.

Having to move his arms to make the cloak seem like it was floating, Draco struggled to keep his balance on Gregory’s shoulders. Both of them laughing their heads off didn’t help either.

Peeking through the heavy fabric of the cloak, Draco could see the people on their brooms looking down at them.

One face stood out between all of them, but Draco did not spot any fear on it. Plunging a hand down the neck of his robes, Harry Potter whipped out his wand, and before Draco could warn the others, he roared, ‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’

Potter’s hair flew out of his face from the sheer power of the spell when something silvery white, something enormous, erupted from the end of his wand.

Draco screamed in terror when the silver beast charged straight at them. The moment he recognized it as a deer, Draco felt the force of its antlers knocking him and Gregory to the ground, rolling and tumbling over each other through the grass. A sharp pain shot through Draco’s arm and his head buzzed from colliding hard with the ground. 

For a second he lay still, groaning in pain, with the heavy cloak smothering him. The sounds of Flint’s angry roars and Madam Hooch’s whistle resounded painfully through his head. When the air underneath the cloak became difficult to breath, he tried to remove it, but it seemed he and Goyle were tangled up in it, and their struggles to break free only worsened the knot they’d made.

‘Goyle, cut it out!’ he shouted.

At last, he managed to get the cloak away from his face – and stared straight into the silver white deer.

‘AUGH!’

Instinctively, he had backed away, before noticing it looked stunningly beautiful. As it circled around them, it made Draco feel all kinds of things he wouldn’t expect to feel at that moment. Sat in the cold, damp grass, laughed at by the entire school as he struggled to get out from underneath a huge cloak, with his hair looking messy and a red hot face… Draco felt safe, loved and blissfully content.

With a faint pop the deer vanished. At once throbbing pains resurfaced all over Draco’s body, and he became aware of shouts and screams.

Standing over them, with an expression of the utmost fury on her face, was Professor McGonagall. ‘An unworthy trick!’ she was shouting. ‘A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! Detention for all of you, and fifty points from Slytherin! I shall be speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! And as for Potter – Ah, here he comes now!’

Crying with laughter, Harry stumbled towards Draco, holding out both his hands to help him back on his feet. ‘Oh Dra!’ he called. ‘Why do you do this to yourself?’

And then Harry Potter flung his toned and sweaty arms around Draco’s neck to pull him into a big, tight bear hug.

Draco froze. Then he lifted his hands and awkwardly touched Potter’s shoulders. As nerves shot through his body, Draco couldn’t help but lean into his friend and close his eyes, just for the shortest moment, and to silently beg him to never let go. 

. . .

The effect of the Patronus kept lingering.

Draco had read every piece of information about it he could find in the library. So far, he’d found out he was supposed to feel the way he did when a Patronus was near, but those feelings were not supposed to last even a second after it vanished. Which was odd, because Draco still felt happier than ever before. He kept laughing loudly at every little thing, feeling giddy, and he could not sit still. He had a constant need to touch people, which was an entirely alien urge for any Malfoy, and he kept sighing every other second, and somehow he found himself beaming all through the day, without any reason whatsoever.

Needless to say, he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t even feel slightly sleepy. After tossing and turning for the second night in a row, he finally snapped and went to see his good friend Madam Pomfrey.

He wondered if Potter was awake. 

‘I need something against the aftereffects of a Patronus curse,’ he demanded as soon as swaggered through the doors of the Hospital Wing and spotted Pomfrey.

‘Hush, dear.’ She pattered toward him. ‘After effects? Silly boy, a Patronus doesn’t leave after effects.’

Draco gestured wildly at himself, furious with frustration. ‘Explain this then, woman! Believe me, I am never this happy!’

‘Don’t call me woman. Sit down.’

Feeling entirely to restless to sit down, he wriggled in the wooden chair as Pomfrey took his wrist and felt his pulse. ‘What else do you feel?’ she asked.

‘I told you! Happy!’ he snarled in disgust. ‘Restless. Everything seems hilarious to me. I can’t focus for even a second, and I keep bloody smiling.’

‘Did anything happen that could have made you feel that way?’ she asked.

Draco glared at her. ‘Let me see,’ he said in mock puzzlement, counting on his fingers. ‘Potter slammed me to the ground, the entire school laughed at me, I got scolded by McGonagall and got detention from Snape, and –… and I– ’ His stomach twirled. – And he got a massive bear hug from Harry Potter.

Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. To his fury, Draco noticed he was staring at nothing and grinning – actually grinning! He slapped himself in the face.

‘See what I mean?’ he bellowed.

‘What were you thinking about?’ asked Pomfrey. ‘What else happened?’

‘NO!’ He crossed his arms, shaking his head furiously. ‘No, it’s got nothing to do with the hug.’

Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. ‘Someone gave you a hug?’

‘It’s beside the point.’

‘You started smiling when you mentioned the hug.’

Draco tried not to think about that. 'Anyway, do you have something for it or not?'

‘You are not suffering from the Patronus, Draco.'

Draco glared at her. 'Then what _am_ I suffering from?'

She took a deep breathe. 'You, my dear boy, are in love.’

A world altering crash completely wiped out the happy feeling. It got replaced by sheer panic.

'And that is my official diagnoses.'

‘In love?' he scoffed. 'Are you saying I’m – I’m –’

Was he in love with Harry Potter? His filthy, useless, stupid Potions partner Potter?

'Yes,' Pomfrey said simply.

It took a few seconds to reach Draco's ears. He was in love. In love with his insipid, earnest, hot-tempered friend Harry, with the glasses and the tangles and the poverty hanging over his shoulders.

‘How do you mean _in love_?’ he inquired. His breathing started coming in heavy heaves. ‘I mean, i-is there a cure for that?’

Pomfrey pressed a cup of chamomile tea in his shaking hands. She didn't answer. 

Harry was a boy, Draco thought, and a boy was not a suitable match for the only Malfoy heir. And Harry was a Gryffindor. And he was famous. And –

And he didn’t care in the slightest about Draco…

‘Oh Merlin,’ he squealed, running a hand through his hair. 'Everyone was right.' He was just like Rotilda – like the Weasley girl! ‘How humiliating...’

‘Breathe slowly, dear. You’re safe,’ said Pomfrey, like a liar. ‘Think about something else.’

Draco didn’t want to think about something else. This problem needed to be dealt with.

‘I am so royally hooped…’ he stammered. ‘I – I don’t want to be in love with Harry Potter.’ Tears of panic and helplessness welled up in his eyes. ‘My father says his name like it's mud in his mouth, you see. And Harry– well, he doesn’t like me.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true. He came to visit you.’

‘Potter’s a _boy,_ ' Draco exclaimed. ‘What am I supposed to do with a boy? I wanted to be friends with him, not –…’ Draco took another shaky breath, putting a hand in his side like he'd just ran a mile. ‘Oh Merlin, this is a disaster... He’s so _famous_. I’m a Malfoy. It’s not dignified. To – to be in – in _love_ … with…’ He felt nauseous. ‘Oh Merlin…’ He was going to be sick.

Madame Pomfrey seized the cup of tea from his hands before it slipped to the floor. ‘Hush, m'dear, it’s not the end of the world.’

Draco bolted upright. ‘Poison!’ he hissed. ‘I’ve been poisoned! Isn’t it obvious? Someone slipped me a love potion! Everyone’s always teasing me with, you know, with my…’

‘It’s not a love potion, dear, you don’t have the full clinical picture. And it’s not a side effect of the Patronus either. I’m thinking it must be love.’

‘Well then that’s just absolutely terrific!’ He’d jumped up and started pacing. ‘What am I to do now? Ask Snape for an anti-dote?’

Pomfrey huffed. ‘You’ll be alright. Spend time with your friends, distract yourself. It will pass when you don’t give it any attention. It’s a proven remedy.’

‘As if!’ he scoffed. He fell back in his chair. ‘You think it’s that simple?’

‘It’s not going to be simple. You share classes with him and like you said, he’s famous. But it’s not impossible.’

‘Alright.’ Draco nodded increasingly fervently. ‘I’ll ignore him then. Starting right now... It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.’

‘That’s it, dear... Drink your tea.’

He did as she said and calmed down a little. He was good at distracting himself, and he had friends. It would pass, he told himself. He would be fine.

He might have accidentally slipped and fell, but there was no way he was going to _remain_ in love. He was a Malfoy, it simply wasn’t appropriate. 

‘You know,’ said Madame Pomfrey, ‘another option – just thinking totally out of the box here, but – you could try to woo him.’

Draco almost spat out his tea, not even because of the old-fashioned word, but just the general idea of Draco Malfoy trying to _woo_ Harry Potter.

‘What, like, _flirt_?’ Draco laughed scathingly. ‘How would that work? You know, I’m not actually desperate, thank you very much. I never _try_ to make an arse of myself, you see, it is always a by-product.’

‘Think about it,’ Madame Pomfrey pressed on. ‘Ask your friends for help.’

Draco snorted. He could imagine his friends’ faces as he asked them for tips on seducing male celebrities. They’d probably choke with laughter, and then exchange the stakes.

‘Well, this has been lovely... but enough is enough.’ Draco'd slammed down the cup and looked Pomfrey square in the eye. ‘I trust I can rely on your discretion on this matter?’

‘My lips are sealed.’

Draco straightened his clothes to regain some of his dignity and nodded like he’d seen his father do so many times. ‘Goodnight, Madam.’

‘Sweet dreams, m'dear. Come back any time you want to talk.’

Let’s not, Draco thought as he strutted out of the Hospital Wing. That woman knew far too much to his taste already.

. . .

‘What’s wrong with you?’ scoffed Vincent after Draco mindlessly shoved his food across his plate and missed yet another thing someone said to him.

He looked up, feeling entirely miserable. ‘Nothing.’

Vincent frowned.

‘Where do you want to go in Hogsmeade?’ Gregory asked him.

Draco shrugged. Crabbe and Goyle exchanged a look. Then, as one man, they turned around. ‘Pansy!’

Draco sat up at once, trying to drag down Gregory’s waving arm. It was no use, he could dangle on their arms with his entire weight and they wouldn’t even notice. Draco considered bolting, but he knew it would only make things worse.

Whenever Draco needed her, Pansy’d pretend to be deaf, but as soon as she saw him hiding away, she’d be over in a heartbeat.

‘Draco’s sick,’ said Gregory. He probably even meant well too, Draco supposed.

Frowning, Pansy put the back of her hand on Draco’s forehead and cheek. ‘What’s wrong with you then?’

‘Nothing!’ Draco repeated, slapping her hand away. ‘Leave me alone.’

Pansy just followed him when he got up. ‘Why do Crabbe and Goyle think you’re sick?’

‘Ask them!’ Draco ran down the steps to the Dungeons. He felt Pansy’s hand reaching for his arm, but pulled away. ‘Piss off, I’m not sick.’

‘Why are you so cranky?’

Draco didn’t answer. He knew his silence would only fuel Pansy’s curiosity, but he couldn’t come up with any excuse. His mind was filled to the brim with Harry; wonderful, stinking Harry. It made him nauseous and sweaty, and he hated being sweaty.

‘Babe,’ said Pansy, grabbing his hand. ‘What is it?’

Draco yanked his arm away from her. ‘I don’t want you to know! Alright?’

She put her hands in her pockets, but kept walking with him through the Dungeons, back to the Common Room, where he fell down on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Nimbostratus jumped on the couch when Pansy sat down next to him. Both of them waited patiently.

With a big, heavy sigh he thought about what Madame Pomfrey had said – “Woo him.” “Ask your friends for help.”

He could never in a million years _woo_ the likes of Harry Potter. It simply wasn’t possible. If Potter were woo-able, wouldn’t someone have done that by now? Anyone at all?

He looked pointedly away from Pansy when he mumbled ‘You’ve got to help me.’

‘Sure, babe, with what?’

‘Forgetting Harry Potter.’

A soft whimper escaped Pansy. She put her head on his shoulder and this time Draco didn’t stop her when she took his hand.

. . .

Draco drowned himself in music.

Last summer Draco’s father had gotten him a Wizarding Wireless that was enchanted to be able to play everything Draco wanted to hear. He could think of a Genre or a Song and it would simply blast out of the speakers when he tapped it with his wand. Draco’d put a Shrinking charm on it, so it fit in his pocket, and put a Silencio charm around himself, so no one else could hear him listening to it.

The other thing he distracted himself with, was getting Hagrid fired. The giant oaf was no proper Professor, and students at Hogwarts deserved to get taught by capable wizards, not by some drop-out who couldn’t even keep himself safe from accidents, let alone the minors under his care.

And whenever he had to leave the Common Room, Pansy, Vincent and Gregory would surround him like a posse. Vincent, the largest of them all, would walk in the front to block Draco’s view, giving Pansy and Gregory time to block Draco’s sides or steer him away from ‘the threat’ if necessary. Draco considered it a little overkill, but was grateful anyway. Surely, he’d forget all about the Boy Who Lived after not seeing him for a couple of days. 

. . .

The Dungeon was hot with two dozen kettles boiling on their fires. Draco’d dumped his robes and rolled up his sleeves, but was still sweating. He dozed off while Snape droned on about a Potion Draco could brew in his sleep.

‘Same pairs as usual. Thirty minutes.’

Draco woke with a start. In a panic he searched for Pansy, who looked back with the same shock on her face. ‘Professor!’ she shouted. ‘Professor, can I work with Draco, because – because of reasons?’

‘No,’ said Snape offhandedly.

At the same time, The Threat plopped down on the stool next to him. ‘Hullo, Dra.’

Harry Potter beamed at him, as if nothing changed. It hadn’t for him, Draco thought, hurting himself in his confusion.

As quick as he could, he tore his gaze away from the lashes and the smile and the scar. ‘This Potion is so easy, you might as well leave,’ he said. ‘I have no need for you at all.’

Harry laughed. ‘Nothing new then, right?’

Draco glared at him. Reluctantly, he pushed the ingredients list over to Potter and the boy dutifully got up to fetch them.

At once, Pansy leaned across the table to grab Draco’s face between her hands. ‘Stay strong, darling. You can do it. Remember: you’re a Malfoy, and he’s a dweeb; a well-known drag.’

He pulled himself loose. ‘He’s none of those. But I am a Malfoy. Piss off, Pansy.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Her eyes darted over his shoulder and she quickly backed away again.

The Threat was back, dropping all their ingredients on the table like they were worthless junk.

Draco bit his tongue. He just wanted to get it all over with and hurried to organize the stuff, but then Harry took his hand – no, Harry shoved his hand aside. ‘Let me try it this time, Dra.’

He pushed past Draco to get to the kettle, then leaned over his shoulder to grab the instructions, and again to get the first ingredients after reading what to do. All of that in a matter of seconds.

Draco’s heart could not handle this. ‘Shove off, Potter!’ he snarled, pushing the boy away from him and almost knocking over the kettle in the process. 

‘Sorry,’ Harry mumbled, before spilling yellow pollen on Draco and then holding his arm to try and rub it off. ‘Sorry.’

Groaning in frustration, Draco yanked his arm away from Potter to Scorgify himself. He decided to shove back onto Harry’s chair, which was further away from the kettle and The Threat.

Immediately, Harry sat down on Draco’s chair, bumping into Draco yet again. His nose almost touching the instructions, he tapped against Draco’s knee and pointed at something in the instructions. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, and shoved his stool closer to Draco, so they could both read the parchment at the same time. Harry’s leg bounced against Draco’s; their heads almost touched.

By this time, Draco almost imploded with everything he was holding in. He seriously started to reconsider his decision to try and get over Potter, feeling a great urge to lean into The Threat instead. Maybe ‘wooing’ wasn’t such a bad idea after all. It certainly felt easier than ignoring right now; after all, how could anyone ignore the marvel that was Harry J. Potter? How in the world could Draco ever deny himself the pleasure of looking at Harry?

So while Potter read the instructions out loud, ever so slowly to try and make sense of them, Draco’s eyes started to wander. 

Harry was in a t-shirt, leaving most of his arms bare. He was sweating a little, as they all were, but instead of filthy, it made his skin look glistening. The tips of his hair stuck to his forehead.

His hands and arms were covered in little scratches. He had bruises and Draco spotted scars too; nothing like the magnificent lightning scar, but scars nonetheless, and Draco wanted to know everything about them.

All of a sudden, Potter looked up, a hint of desperation on his face that made Draco feel weak. Involuntarily, Draco leaned closer, and slowly, in phases, a smile broke through on Harry’s face. First his desperate frown relaxed. The lines in his forehead disappeared. His eyelids lowered. The corners of his mouth moved sideways, then up, showing a glimpse of his teeth.

Watching the miracle that was Harry’s smile, Draco felt every inch of his body relax. A sigh got stuck somewhere in his nervous tummy.

From his eyes alone Draco could tell Harry Potter was the easy-going type, even if he hadn’t known him the way he did. And Draco knew him, so he knew he was right: Harry was sweet.

Harry’s eyes darted over Draco’s face. His shoulders lowered and he leaned against the table, a fist under his head. His gaze swept over Draco’s blouse, his neck, his ears, his lips, then back to Draco’s eyes. His smile turned into a grin. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Is there something in my hair again?’

Startled, Draco realised he’d been staring for ages.

‘Who knows,’ Draco drawled, turning away as casually as he could manage. ‘Even a Niffler couldn’t find a coin in there… I guess I dozed off… could you read any slower?’

Harry returned his attention to the instructions, following the lines with his ink-stained finger. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ he mumbled.

Draco handed him the dried frogs. ‘Cut these.’

Harry did as he was told, and Draco lay his head on his arms to shamelessly – but respectfully – continue staring. ‘I’ll supervise,’ he mumbled. It was all perfectly inconspicuous, until Harry caught him touching one of the scars on the boy’s upper arm.

Draco bolted upright. ‘That’s small enough. Now peel – ’

His voice trailed off when Harry turned his arm to see the scar. ‘My cousin liked to experiment. His curious nature, my uncle said; he had a knack for science. As if Dudley was some kind of brainiac. It was just hot oil, anyone could’ve told him what was going to happen.’

Draco frowned. ‘Are all your scars from your family?’

Shaking his head, Harry searched his arms. ‘This one’s from the Basilisk, when I tried to escape. And the ones on my hands – ’ He showed Draco marks on the lowest bones of his fingers and the outer rims of his palms ‘ – Were from first year, when I burnt Quirell’s face off. It didn’t hurt though.’

Draco did not like the sight of the marks at all, but he couldn’t help but inspect Harry’s hands. As his thumb ran over the tiny white spots, he suddenly remembered the mortifying realisation of his heart’s desire, and let go as if Harry’d burnt his skin too.

‘You should be more careful,’ he drawled.

Harry grinned. ‘You’re right.’

‘Ten more minutes,’ called Snape and Draco jumped.

‘I beg your pardon?’ They hadn’t even started yet. ‘Merlin! Potter, you suck!’

Draco violently took the knife from Harry and started to chop up their ingredients and flinging them into the kettle, wailing, ‘This is so easy. I can’t fail at something this easy, Potter! My family will be notified! Our entire bloodline’s honour is at stake!’

Harry touched Draco’s leg. Draco jumped away, panting.

‘You caught fire,’ Potter said.

Indeed, there were scorch marks on Draco’s pants.

‘You should be more careful.’ Harry grinned broadly.

Furiously, Draco glared at him. ‘Y-you are a bad influence, Harry Potter!’

. . .

Meanwhile, their second Hogsmeade trip was coming up. The Threat wasn’t allowed to go, so Draco would finally be allowed some personal space, a real horizon to look at and rest – glorious, wonderful _rest_. Needless to say, he was very much looking forward to it.

There was a shop in Hogsmeade that sold sheet music. Draco wanted to buy as much as possible there, since it had proven difficult to simply guess the notes of some songs.

Before it was even two in the afternoon, Vincent, Gregory and Draco had done everything they’d wanted to do in Hogsmeade, including a visit to the music shop, so they decided to take a walk to the Shrieking Shack, just to enjoy their freedom.

Draco was telling his friends all about Hagrid’s trial. Things were going perfectly. Father was a great public speaker and would obliterate the competition at this hearing.

‘I should have an owl from Father any time now. He had to go to the hearing to tell them about my arm… about how I couldn’t use it for three months. I really wish I could hear that great hairy moron trying to defend himself… “There’s no ’arm in ’im , ’on est“… That Hippogriff’s as good as dead –’

Suddenly, Draco caught sight of Weasley, standing alone, leaning on a fence to watch the Shrieking Shack. Draco felt his face split in a malevolent grin.

‘What are you doing, Weasley?’ Draco looked up at the crumbling house. ‘Suppose you’d love to live here, wouldn’t you? Dreaming about having your own bedroom? I heard your family all sleep in one room – is that true?’

Weasley appeared to have trouble controlling himself, but did nothing.

‘We were just discussing your friend Hagrid,’ Draco continued. ‘Just trying to imagine what he’s saying to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. D’you think he’ll cry when they cut off his Hippogriff’s –’

SPLAT!

Draco’s head jerked forwards as a ball of mud hit him; his hair was dripping in muck.

‘What the –?’

Weasley had to hold on to the fence to keep himself standing, he was laughing so hard, while Draco, Vincent and Gregory spun on the spot, staring wildly around.

‘What was that? Who did that?’ said Draco, trying to wipe his hair clean.

‘Very haunted up here, isn’t it?’ said Weasley, with the air of one commenting on the weather.

Crabbe and Goyle looked scared; their bulging muscles were no use against ghosts. Draco was staring madly around at the deserted landscape.

SPLATTER!

This time, Vincent and Gregory caught some foul-smelling, green sludge. Gregory hopped furiously on the spot, trying to rub it out of his eyes.

‘It came from over there!’ said Draco, wiping his face.

Vincent blundered forwards, his long arms outstretched like a zombie. Suddenly, a stick lobbed at his back and he did a kind of pirouette in mid-air, trying to see who had thrown it. As Weasley was the only person around, it was Weasley he started towards.

Then he stumbled on something and at the same time a face appeared. It hung in midair, unattached to a body. It was the face of Harry Potter.

For a split second, Draco stared at him.

‘AAARGH!’ he yelled, pointing at Harry’s head. Then he turned tail and ran, at breakneck speed, back down the hill, Vincent and Gregory following at his heel.

‘Did you see it too?’ Draco asked, panting.

Crabbe and Goyle nodded. ‘Potter’s ugly head.’

Those weren’t the words Draco would’ve used, but at least he wasn’t going mental. Still, it couldn’t be good that Potter’s head was floating around the Shrieking Shack. Did it mean he was dead?

They ran straight to Madam Puddifoot’s teashop, headquarter of Pansy and her gang of Slytherin girls. Before they reached her, however, Draco, Vincent and Gregory bumped into Professor Severus Snape.

Gasping for breath, they came to a halt.

‘Master Malfoy,’ their Professor drawled. His eyes swayed over to Crabbe and Goyle. ‘And… friends.’

‘Potter,’ panted Draco.

‘A ghost,’ panted Vincent.

‘Potter’s head,’ panted Gregory.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

‘We saw Potter’s head floating in the air,’ said Draco, knowing full well how crazy it sounded. ‘Only his head. I swear, that’s what we saw.’

‘It’s true,’ said Vincent.

‘Well well well…’ muttered Snape.

‘Is he dead?’ Draco was unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

‘Not likely,’ Snape drawled. ‘If Mister Potter’s head is here, than I am certain the rest of his miserable body is here too. I will call him into my office immediately… Be assured… Potter is not dead – yet.’

They watched him hurry back towards the castle.

‘He’s in for it this time,’ growled Vincent, rubbing his hands.

Draco scratched his muddied head, wondering how much trouble he got Harry in. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, for once in his life.

But more importantly: how did Potter manage to make his head float?

‘Come on,’ said Gregory. ‘Let’s get ice cream.’

Now that was a good idea, Draco thought.

. . .

The trial to get justice for Draco’s injury went even better than expected. Father had managed to convince the hearing that Draco’s wound had been bad enough to get the hippogriff _killed_. His parents had completely removed the threat from this world for Draco. He had never felt so proud of his family. They could do anything they set their hearts to.

Their next Care of Magical Creatures class, Hagrid cried. The great moron actually cried over a hazardous animal.

‘Completely out of it, that man,’ Draco uttered, looking back at their “Professor” as they were walking up to the castle. ‘Look at him blubber!’

Draco, Vincent and Gregory watched, standing just inside the castle doors, and they sniggered as Hagrid turned round and ran back towards his cabin, his face buried in his handkerchief.

Weasley, Granger and Potter watched him go from the top of the steps.

‘Have you ever seen anything quite as pathetic?’ Draco said. ‘And he’s supposed to be our teacher!’

Weasley made a furious move towards Draco, but then Granger got there first – SMACK!

Draco staggered. She had slapped him around the face with all the strength she could muster. ‘Don’t you dare call Hagrid pathetic, you foul – you evil –’

They all stood flabbergasted as the Mudblood raised her hand again.

‘Hermione!’ Potter grabbed her hand as she swung it back, and he pulled her away. Looking conflicted, he inched closer and reached to touch Draco’s face.

Shocked, Draco slapped him away. ‘Get off, Potter!’

Immediately, Weasley had pulled out his wand.

Draco stepped backwards. ‘C’mon,’ he muttered.

Thankfully, the “golden trio” allowed Draco, Crabbe and Goyle to retreat to the silent safety of the Dungeons.

‘Filthy Mudblood,’ grumbled Draco, touching his painful face.

‘I’m not beating a girl,’ said Vincent. ‘But if she touches us again…’

‘She’s dead,’ growled Gregory. He looked at Draco’s face. ‘You want ice?’ he muttered, nodding towards the kitchen.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Draco wailed. ‘We’ve ignored them for weeks.’

Hurting even more than the smack around his face, was the fact that Harry Potter hadn’t even noticed Draco ignoring him.

. . .

Hidden in a corner of the Common Room where no one would bother him, Draco was bent over his Runes homework. To keep his mind from wandering, he was doing all the homework for rest of the year in advance.

He hadn’t slept well for days. Harry’s warm fingers on Draco’s face kept cropping up in his dreams, as did Harry’s shirtless back or the way he had stood in the middle of the Slytherin Common Room, with dozens of wands pointed at him and that almighty powerful look about him.

It was torture. Draco wanted to see him, touch him, talk to him, make him laugh and get him to look so soft at Draco while his hair crackled like sparklers.

Just as Draco’s right hand got cramped so bad he had to switch to his left, Pansy plopped down next to him. ‘How’s it going, Draconius?’

‘Terrific,’ he muttered.

‘Noticed you weren’t at lunch.’

Draco didn’t reply.

‘Or breakfast,’ Pansy continued. ‘Noticed your hair is greasy. Never seen that before.’

Who cares, Draco thought. He wasn’t planning on leaving the Common Room. Not if he could help it. Not if somewhere out there, Harry J. Potter was talking to everyone but him.

‘Realized it’s almost Slytherin against Gryffindor,’ Pansy said, softer now. ‘Connected the dots.’

‘You’re a gosh-darn genius, Pansington. Ought to give you a medal.’

‘Are you so nervous then?’

Draco put down his quill. ‘I can’t do it right. If he wins, we lose. If I win, he’ll lose.’

‘So what?’ asked Pansy.

Draco shrugged and hung his head. ‘I like seeing him win.’ 

Pansy smirked. ‘Merlin… Draco – ’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He rolled up his sleeves and picked up his quill, but couldn’t get himself to continue his homework.

Putting the quill down again, he ruffled through his disgusting hair before dropping his face in his hands.

‘I’m so in love with him...’

A wave of heartache got stuck in his throat. He swallowed a sob.

‘Why doesn’t he like me?’

. . .

Meanwhile, the whole of Slytherin house was obsessed with the upcoming Quidditch match. Marcus Flint kept shouting advise and tactics through the corridors that Draco and his teammates should remember for the match. Other Slytherins kept slapping their shoulders in support, as if it would help Draco to be black and blue when searching for the Snitch.

Slytherin wasn’t even half as obsessed with the match as Gryffindor was. They hadn’t won the Quidditch Cup since Charlie Weasley had been Seeker and were relentless in their efforts to bring the Slytherins down. Even imitating Harry Potter fainting didn’t shut them up anymore.

‘You suck, Malfoy,’ scoffed a seventh-year Gryffindor twice Draco’s size, while he and his friends pretended to be retching and vomiting every time they noticed Draco

‘Couldn’t catch a Snitch when it flew in your face,’ smirked others.

And for some reason they all started blowing raspberries while turning their thumbs down, whenever they passed him. It wasn’t threatening or insulting, but it didn’t make Draco feel any better too. No matter how silly they showed it, the hate was real. Draco sucked.

He felt nauseous the entire week. The last time Potter’d been on a broom, he had hit Draco with that incredible Patronus, which was a curse even adult wizards struggled with. Following that, he had bombarded Draco with yucky mud. And as a cherry on top his best, mudblood friend had slapped Draco in the face.

Still, even after all that – perhaps because all of that – all Draco wanted was another hug. He wondered whether his chances to get it would be better or worse if he caught the Snitch first. Would Harry look up to him if he won? Or would it make him Harry’s worst rival? More than he already was?

‘You should go to Bedfordshire, Draconius,’ said Pansy, when she and her cat went to her dorm the night before the match.

Looking up from a paragraph about Patchouli’s magical scent Draco had been rereading for the umpteenth time, he snorted. ‘Why? It’s not as if I would sleep.’

‘Then get a Sleeping Draft.’

Draco shook his head. No way was he ever going back to Madam Pomfrey. Knowledge was power, and Madam Pomfrey knew far too much.

Pansy planted her hands on Draco’s table. ‘If you don’t get it, I will.’ She made it sound like a threat.

He gestured vaguely. ‘If you insist.’

She glared at him. ‘Very well! Just this once! I’m not your House Elf!’

He peeked over his shoulder to watch her storm off. Nimbostratus circled around the door to the dorms, meowing loudly. People got tired or intimidated by Pansy’s harsh and loud exterior all the time, but Draco could not imagine a better friend in the world.

Within minutes she’d returned and slammed a bottle on Draco’s table. ‘Sweet dreams!’ she roared and went to bed.

‘You’re the most important person in my life,’ Draco said, just loud enough so she’d hear it.

It made her stop dead in her tracks. With a curious look, she tilted her head to watch him. Then she smirked. ‘Not more important than The Boy Who Lived?’

He made a face. ‘That’s a stretch,’ he snarled.

She walked back to him and lifted his chin. ‘Stop being so scared, darling, it’s not a good look. If you fail, you fail, but not to us, alright? Daddy always says Malfoys are well-known to spring back – like punching bags.’

Despite himself, Draco smiled. He’d felt a lot like a punching bag lately.

‘That’s my boy.’ Pansy smiled and Draco reached up to wrap his arms around her neck and drag her into a bear hug of his own.

She was right, he knew she was; it would all be alright. He could ponder about winning or losing, but in the end there was no way to control the outcome anyway. His teammates were counting on him; the entire house of Slytherin was counting on him. Harry Potter be damned, he should at least give it his best shot.

As he pushed Pansy away, Draco chugged down the Sleeping Draft.

‘Goodnight Vienna,’ he slurred and collapsed on the floor, because, as it turned out, Sleeping Drafts worked instantly. 

. . .

When the Gryffindor team entered the Great Hall the next morning it was to enormous applause. Both the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were clapping for them too.

No one had applauded when the Slytherin team entered. Slytherin had always been the underdog – a position they’d become comfortable with. Still, it stung, and the Slytherins hissed loudly as the Gryffindors passed.

Draco just watched his housemates, feeling like an outsider.

‘And here come the Slytherin team,’ yelled Lee Jordan, who was acting as commentator as usual, when Draco and the rest of the Slytherin team entered the Quidditch field later that morning. ‘Led by captain Flint. He’s made some changes in the line-up and seems to be going for size rather than skill –’

This comment was followed by boos from the Slytherin crowd. Draco thought Lee had a point, but was the last to complain. His enormous teammates towered over the Gryffindors and made Draco feel safer than he’d felt in weeks.

‘Mount your brooms!’ said Madam Hooch. ‘Three… two… one…’

The sound of her whistle was lost in the roar from the crowd as fourteen brooms rose into the air. Draco felt his hair fly back. His nerves left him in the thrill of the flight. This was and always had been his favourite pastime. He started looking around for the Snitch right away, but only found Harry Potter beaming at him, looking excited. Draco felt himself smiling back before he could prevent it.

Within minutes, Draco noticed Harry speeding off, apparently catching sight of the Snitch somewhere. Draco followed on his heel, but no matter how he searched, he couldn’t spot the damn thing. When Harry randomly slowed down and went back to looking around, Draco squinted at him in suspicion. Had he _tricked_ him?

As he and Harry soared around the pitch, high above the rest of the game, Draco could almost feel the hundreds of eyes following them. Suddenly, Harry put on a huge burst of speed again: the Snitch was sparkling twenty feet above them, and Draco had noticed it far too late.

Draco tailed Harry, who stretched out his hand. He couldn’t let this happen, there had to be a way – 

In an impulse, Draco threw himself forward, grabbed hold of the Firebolt’s tail and pulled it back.

Horrified, Harry looked around. ‘You – ’ He burst out laughing, losing his concentration as he tried to hit Draco.

Draco was panting with the effort of holding onto the Firebolt, leaning his entire weight on it. One wrong motion of Potter, and Draco would plunge to his death. It was worth it, he had achieved what he’d wanted: the Snitch had disappeared again, and as a bonus Harry was doubled up on his broom from laughing.

‘Penalty! Penalty to Gryffindor! I’ve never seen such tactics!’ Madam Hooch screeched, shooting up to where Draco was sliding back onto his Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

‘Jerk!’ Harry shouted and he pushed Draco off his broom. Before he could even try to regain his balance, Harry’d already grabbed Draco’s shirt to pull him back up.

‘Evil Slytherin,’ he said, shaking his head. He was still grinning.

From then on, Potter was marking Draco so closely their knees kept hitting each other. Harry wasn’t going to let Draco anywhere near the Snitch.

‘Get out of it, Potter!’ Draco yelled in frustration, as he tried to turn and found Harry blocking him.

Potter seemed to be enjoying himself very much.

Shouts of the Gryffindor team distracted both of them. ‘Angelina, COME ON!’

Every single other Slytherin player, even their Keeper, was streaking up the pitch towards Angelina – they were all going to block her penalty.

Harry wheeled the Firebolt about, bent so low he was lying flat along the handle and kicked it forwards. Like a bullet, he shot towards the Slytherins.

Draco let out a breath of relief and flew away from the game, looking over the field –

And there it was! A few feet away from him: a tiny, golden glimmer.

All other thoughts and worries vanishing from his mind, Draco dived. He was so close. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Potter inching nearer, but even with a Firebolt, there was no way he was going to catch up.

Draco stretched out his hand, he could almost feel the Snitch already. They were going to win!

A great blur of red and gold entered his field of vision. Draco only had a split second to register what had happened: Harry Potter was falling through the air; without a Firebolt to support him in sight –

They were miles above the ground – Harry Potter was falling to his death! A shriek got stuck in Draco’s throat as he closed his hand around Harry’s arm –

The full weight of the Boy Who Lived yanked Draco down. Clinging to Harry’s wrist for dear life, Draco got thrown off his Nimbus when Harry plunged towards the ground – only at the last second, Draco wrapped his leg around the broom, his heart pounding in his throat.

They hung in the air with only Draco’s leg and his hand to keep them from falling into the depth. In a fearful, high pitched voice that Draco hardly recognized, he heared himself sprinkle the Quidditch field with every foul word he knew.

Harry looked up at him. His warm hand clutched Draco’s wrist so tightly it hurt, yet he was beaming. Why was he beaming?

Out of the corner of his eye, the Firebolt appeared. It stopped at Harry’s side, at exactly the right height for him to mount it. Potter climbed onto the Firebolt, finally allowing Draco to heave himself up to safety as well.

‘Thanks,’ said Harry with a broad grin – and he flew away with his fist in the air.

The stadium exploded.

Draco’s heart fell. 

. . .

Draco felt hot and stupid. Of course Harry had never been in danger; not with Professor Dumbledore watching and with the Firebolt’s thousands of features. And of course he had deliberately chosen to put himself in danger, there was no accident involved of any kind.

The other Slytherins were livid. Draco flinched when his teammates swarmed over to him as one man, until he started making out their words:

‘Foul move – !’

‘Taking advantage – !’

‘Partial ref– !’

‘This is not to be borne!’

That last one was Pansy, shouting all the way from the ground. She was flanked by Vincent and Gregory, who were looking daggers at the Gryffindors and Madam Hooch.

They weren’t angry with him, Draco realised – they were angry with Harry Potter.

Slumping on his Nimbus, Draco wished his teammates would yell at him. He’d never felt more dumb. He pointed his broom to the ground, then left it there. ‘I quit.’

As soon as he stalked away, the whole team surrounded him. They didn’t seem to agree with his decision. Draco barely understood a thing they said as they all shouted over each other, but he got the gist of it. They claimed it wasn’t his fault, that anyone would have done what Draco had, and that he’d set a great example of true Slytherin character.

It thawed his frozen heart. All this time, he’d been quietly convinced he was only in the team because his father bought everyone those Nimbuses; it was only last year that they’d yelled at him for letting himself get distracted by Potter, and now they didn’t want him to quit for the same reason.

Jason the Mudblood pushed him out of his thoughts. ‘ _I don't want no scrubs_ ,’ he softly sang, looking shy but with a light in his eyes. ‘ _A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me_.’

Draco pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. He loved that song; it sounded so futuristic. He wondered how Jason knew.

‘ _Hangin' out the passenger side_ ,’ Jason sang on.

‘ _Of his best friend's ride_ ,’ Draco joined in. ‘ _Trying to holla at me_.’

‘Woo!’ yelled Jason the Mudblood, clapping his hands and swinging his hips.

‘PARTY?!’ shouted Adrian Pucey, looking excitedly at them all one by one.

‘PARTY!’ hollered Miles Bletchley, and – somewhere at the back of the crowd – Pansy too. ‘Teach us the song, Draconius!’ she bellowed.

Draco copied Jason’s little dance. ‘ _I don't want no scrub. A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me.’_

_‘Hangin' out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holla at me!’_

It might have been the weirdest moment of Draco’s life, marching through the Dungeons with the whole Quidditch team belting out Muggle songs after losing spectacularly; on their way to party all through the night, for no reason, except that they felt rebellious. It was a good thing Snape never checked up on them, as they would probably have overpowered him and thrown him out at his arms and legs, bound up and Stunned, just for the heck of it.

Draco showed of his Magically enhanced Muggle music. At one point he’d gone slightly overboard with it and had the entire Slytherin house bawling their eyes out on a Whitney Houston song, but he’d never seen a happier bunch of people than when “I’m gonna be” started playing.

Blaise Zabini jumped on a table, pretending to be a choir conductor while stomping his feet as if he was soldiering on with the boy scouts. ‘‘ _And I would walk five hundred miles_! _And I would walk five hundred more_!’ He pointed at the left side of the Commons room – ‘ _Da-da da-da da!_ ’ the left side shouted – then he pointed at the right side of the Common room – ‘ _Da-da da-da da!_ ’ the right side shouted.

It was one of the best nights of Draco’s life.

. . .

Pansy had been right: the Malfoys truly were the punching bags of the Wizarding World. Draco barely had time to recover from his humiliation at the Quidditch field, when the next punch was delivered.

In the last week of the year, right after their exams, Buckbeak was executed. Or rather: he was supposed to be. In the Entrance Hall on his way to breakfast, Draco’s Eagle Owl flew up to him with a letter.

‘The beast was gone,’ his father wrote; even his handwriting looked angry. ‘One minute we were all looking at it, the next it was gone, entirely gone. From right under our noses. We were standing talking to the Gamekeeper the entire time. There is no explanation.’

‘No explanation,’ Draco grumbled, almost tearing up the letter in fury. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Talking to yourself is a sign of loneliness,’ said a hazy voice behind him. Some second year with long blonde hair and weird glasses was walking past him, a faint smile on her face. She disappeared from sight before he could decide what part of the girl to insult first.

‘That moronic oaf outwitted my father!’ Draco slammed the letter on the Slytherin table with such force that Gregory dropped a sausage. ‘Can you believe it? He must have had help. Outwitted by a Gamekeeper! ’

‘Draco, my sausage,’ whined Gregory.

‘This is outrageous!’ Draco was too angry even to sit down.

A husky voice behind him jeered, ‘What’s the matter, Dra?’

‘PISS OFF!’ Pansy and Gregory bellowed in unison. 

Draco didn’t even look around. He felt proud.

Malfoys sprung back.

. . .

On the train home, Draco, Vincent, Gregory, Pansy and Nimbostratus shared a compartment. It was nice to have Pansy with them, like old times. Draco wondered if the Slytherin girls wouldn’t miss her too much.

When it got time to change into their normal clothes, something fell out of Draco’s pocket. With a muffled clunk it dropped to the floor. Curious, Draco picked it up.

‘What’s that?’ asked nosy Pansy, who had been trying to get Nimbostratus back in his cage.

‘A jawbreaker?’ Gregory offered with high hopes.

It was a small, hard ball wrapped in a piece of paper. Draco sat down to unwrap it – and his mouth fell open. Underneath the paper was a Snitch, heavily wrapped in Spellotape to keep it from flying off. 

Draco flattened the paper on his leg and squinted to see what was on it. As soon as he recognized the handwriting, he started grinning like an impressionable fool. 

On the note was a drawing, picturing Potter and Draco dangling from the Nimbus Two Thousand And One. Then Draco deciphered the words underneath the drawing – and his heart almost leaped out of his chest.

‘I’m yours,’ it read.

Draco’s face felt hotter than ever, and both the note and the Snitch slipped out of his nervous, sweaty hands. He struggled to pick them up, every inch of his body was shaking.

Nimbostratus jumped on the Snitch and Pansy snatched up the paper. She too squinted to read Harry’s handwriting. Then her chin dropped. She started to grin. ‘Holy _fuck_ , Draconius!’ She started slapping him on the head in excitement and then pressed a kiss on his hair. ‘You _hooked_ The Boy Who Lived!’

‘Contain yourself, woman,’ drawled Draco, but even his voice sounded shaky and weak. ‘He meant the Snitch, certainly, he only meant that stupid Snitch.’

Vincent grabbed the note and Gregory looked over his shoulder to see it too. Mean smiles appeared on their faces. It seemed they were already planning how to make fun of Draco about this, or how to use it against Potter somehow.

Meanwhile, Pansy had picked up her cat and slammed open the compartment door. ‘I’m telling the girls!’

Draco grabbed her arm, yanked the door close and in the same move he pulled his precious note out of Vincent’s grubby hands. ‘No, you will not! This is _mine_ , understood?!’

‘ _Yours,_ indeed,’ jeered Pansy, touching his nose. ‘Aaw, Draco, my heart is melting!’

He shook his head. ‘It’s nothing. I’m sure it is nothing.’

‘I’m sure it’s everything!’ screamed Pansy. ‘Promise you’ll write him this summer!’

‘No, I dunno…’

‘Swear it!’ She looked daggers at him, piercing her nails into his wrist.

‘Alright, I swear I will write him,’ muttered Draco, his voice high and his face still flushed.

She let him go and he hid his face in his hands, peeking through his fingers to stare at Harry’s words.

_I’m yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20/9/2020: I was planning to drop a chapter each month, but then life in general and a chronic illness in specific happened. All promises are out of the window at this point, but I do want to finish the story.
> 
> 09/12/2020: The project is suddenly very daunting and overwhelming to me. The only way I can finish this is by making it fun, and the only way to make it fun is to release any pressure of finishing this.  
> I will probably keep updating. It might be finished in fourty years. I do love this project <3  
> Anywho, I have a draft of chapter four and have started on chapter five. Maybe comments help keep me motivated 0:) it really is a lot to rewrite an entire book series, I don't know why I didn't think of that before lmao (hint: adhd?)


	4. Love's keen sting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be cutting up each of the last four books into multiple chapters. This is chapter 1 of 3 of Goblet of Fire.
> 
> Update 27-01-2020: I added some ghosts to the Manor. Especially Uncle Barney is a recurring figure. You can find all scenes about them by doing a search of the word 'ghost'.

Father could not be silenced about the Hippogriff that summer.

‘I cannot believe we failed! _Lost_ from a mere simpleton!’

‘At least the monster’s gone,’ said Draco, dreamily stirring his tea.

‘Is it?’ snapped his father. ‘There is no _justice_! You could have been maimed for life! And the threat is not properly dealt with to this day! We failed to deliver as parents, Draconius.’

Draco sighed, smiling. ‘’Twas a nice gesture.’

The room fell oddly silent. Draco – whose thoughts had been with drawings and snitches, inky hands and lashes – resurfaced to the physical realm to meet two pairs of fiery eyes.

‘Go clean your mouth with soap!’ boomed his father.

Draco blinked in utter confusion.

‘Purebloods do not shorten their verbs, Draconius,’ snarled his mother. ‘You know this. If at all possible we would lengthen them.’

Draco flushed. The strict rules at the Manor had slipped his mind. For a second, he considered saying “’Twasn’t on purpose,’ but that would probably not fare well.

‘My thoughts were elsewhere,’ he declared. ‘It is probably the horrible influence of that filthy Mudblood’s constant presence in our dormroom.’

They all stuck up their noses in disgust; bonding over their hatred always worked wonders to solve quarrels.

To lighten the mood, Mother asked Draco to play them something nice on the violin, so Draco jumped up to get it.

He cranked out the song he’d been obsessed with for weeks now. ‘ _Under neon loneliness_ ,’ he sang as he played, ‘ _motorcycle emptiness_ …’

The Riff – as Muggles called the heavy guitar part – made Draco feel homesick for something he never experienced. It made him feel alive. His Magical Enhancing charm improved greatly since first year, and as the last notes lingered under the high ceiling of the parlour, he saw his own emotions reflected on the faces of his parents.

His mother beckoned him closer, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘ _Magnifique._ ’

Draco swelled with pride.

. . .

‘Happy birthday!’ shrieked Pansy as she handed him a present, a cranky Nimbostratus clutched in her arms.

Without even looking at her, he ripped the wrapping paper off, and Pansy burst out into laughter as he read the title of the book she got him: ‘Magic For The Hopelessly Romantic.’

‘Hope you like it!’ she jeered.

He shot her a look and threw it aside. ‘Where’s the other present?’ he demanded.

‘Here.’ She pressed a violent kiss on his cheek. The cat’s fur tickled his chin.

That was it.

Draco huffed. ‘I will treasure it forever.’

‘Aw, don’t mention it.’

When he got home, he jumped on his bed to flip through the book, and found it wasn’t half bad. There were several love potions in there, ranging in strength and what nasty stuff it would make the victim want to do, but there was also a chapter about creative ways to make a gift out of a memory. For instance: turning it into a Patronus-like projection, or keeping it in a locket around one’s neck. There was a chapter about tattoos that almost made Draco jump up to force his parents to give him permission.

But the chapter that truly made Draco’s heart do a backflip was the one about jewellery. He loved magical jewellery. His parents’ wedding rings were filled to the brim with it, he didn’t even know half of the things they could do, and he’d always been envious about it.

There was a Potion to make a set of mood rings, so one could always know what the other person was experiencing. It came with over a hundred barely distinguishable shades of colours though, to match each highly specific human emotion. It seemed rather tiresome to figure out to Draco.

Another Potion could not be pried from Draco’s mind: immerse any object in it and it would mimic your loved ones heartbeat in real-time. If they got scared, excited or active, you’d feel their raised heartbeat through the object. You’d feel it slow down when they fell asleep. 

Draco wanted it – so bad. He needed to feel Harry’s heartbeat against his skin; such a constant reminder of his existence seemed like the most beautiful thing he could ever own.

Realising he truly was a horribly hopeless romantic, he sighed, and quickly scribbled a thank you-note to Pansy, that he threw away immediately. 

He took the book to his parents’ Potions cabinet, but scanning the ingredients, his heart sank. There was stuff on the list he’d never even heard of before – and even if his parents had them, the potion still also required "a part of the other individual’s body”, like a nail clipping or a hair.

Scratching his head, Draco pondered how he would ever discretely get a part of Potter’s body. He would never be able to get that close. 

Disappointed, he threw the book in his trunk with his other birthday gifts and tried to forget about it.

. . .

’Twas a long summer, that summer of ’94. Draco tried to spend as much time as possible with the Crabbes, the Goyles and the Parkinsons, but there were still days and days on which he had to fend all by himself.

He played so much violin he developed neck pain. He practiced his drumming until he had blisters on his fingers. He tried to get more athletic; ever since he saw the Parkinson-sisters doing circus acts on the huge lawn behind their villa, he would like to be as flexible as them. Growing up with the four Parkinson sisters, he knew how to do cartwheels and summersaults and how to fly a broom while standing, but there was always room for improvement.

This summer his goal was to learn falling on his hands and feet, looking like a bridge, then throwing his legs in the air one by one and falling on his feet again on the other side to get up and start all over. Pansy’s little sister Poppy could flip-flop her way through the entire garden like that. It was just another way to walk for her, and Draco thought it looked amazing.

‘Doesn’t she know there’s another way to move?’ he drawled, watching the two youngest Parkinsons while sitting on the porch of the Parkinsons’ villa with Pansy and Nimbostratus.

‘She drives me positively bonkers,’ Pansy replied in a monotone.

While slurping up milkshake after milkshake, they watched Poppy as she played with her sister Periwinkle, for hours on end. 

Poppy and Periwinkle were born only a year apart and everyone always asked if they were twins. It made them furious. To be fair, almost everything made those two furious. The only moments they were happy were when they could practice gymnastics in the yard. Slightly two-dimensional, if you asked Draco, but they were not yet ten. There was still hope.

The fourth Parkinson-sister, Primrose, was off to see the world. She was on her way to be famous, she’d said before she left them, and no one doubted it: she looked like a Veela and spent almost every free hour of her life doing ballet or other kinds of dancing. She was a handful though, always running off with boys or begging her parents to keep the stray creatures she found as pets. One time she took a baby centaur from the forest on their property and it almost started a war.

Their brother Penstemon, the eldest of the lot, was happily married in Stoke-on-Trent. He resembled their father, Mr. Parkinson: slow, gentle and quiet with a dumb sense of humour. He just wished for a bit of peace to carve his wood. He was a wand-making apprentice; he could stare at trees for minutes on end, sometimes knocking the bark or stroking the trunk, muttering under his breath about swish or flex or hold.

Draco missed the two eldest Parkinsons. They left a big hole in the chaotic barrel of monkeys that was the Parkinson family. There was no need to mention this though; they all missed them. The Parkinson Property felt empty without the Primrose’s scandalous boyfriends and the way they tried to exploit her all the time, or the piles and piles of wood Penstemon liked to collect for you-never-knew-when. 

‘Written him yet?’ drawled Pansy in between sips of her milkshake.

‘Who?’ said Draco. He knew perfectly well who.

She smiled maliciously. ‘The Boy Who’s Yours.’ 

‘Oh, him… He meant the Snitch.’ Draco felt like a Cassette on repeat. ‘And I don't know what to say.’

‘Does it matter? He will drool all over you anyway. I’ve seen him do it.’

‘Filthy liar… Besides, I don't know his address.’

‘That is a load of dung and you know it. Owls don’t need addresses.’

Draco heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘Don't tell me you never read _The Boy Who Lived: A Biography Of Harry Potter_? His house is warded in every possible way. There’s some sort of Fidelius Charm on it, so you can only send owls if you tell the owl the address.’ 

Pansy huffed, clearly stunned for a second. ‘Well… then… Just ask your father.’

‘I can’t ask my father! He’ll ask questions!’

‘Mine then.’ Pansy shrugged, then got to her feet, slapping the grass off her skirt and making Nimbostratus meow loudly in protest. ‘Daddy?! DADDY!’

Her father - a balding man with a moustache, a cheerful face and a round belly - strolled leisurely out on the porch. ‘Don’t shout, daughtermine. Think of the neighbours.’

Their neighbours were miles and miles away, not counting the forest creatures. It was a running joke of the Parkinsons; one that no one ever really laughed at.

‘Daddy-dear, Draco’s in love –’

Draco gasped. ‘Pansy, shut up!’

Mister Parkinson didn’t hear Draco. ‘Oh, to be young and feel love's keen sting!’ he simpered.

Draco beat Pansy’s arm repeatedly, without holding back. ‘Die, Pansy, _die_!’

‘Alright, alright! Hush! Daddy, for no reason at all, except maybe… philosophical? Do you think you can get us Harry J. Potter’s address?’

‘No can do, darling!’ her father cheerily called. ‘It is the best kept secret in the Ministry. Only Dumbledore knows.’

Pansy scoffed. ‘As if!’

It took her a solid fifteen minutes, but then Pansy had succeeded in wheedling Potter’s home address from her father.

‘Remember, you are not supposed to have this,’ he said weakly after her, as she ran off with it. ‘It is top secret information. I did not give you this!’

Pansy’s eyes glimmered tauntingly at Draco. ‘Let us write, my darling.’

Draco ran after her as she got up to her room to get out a quill and ink. He tried grabbing the note with Harry’s address on it from her, but she kept moving it away and switching it from one hand to the other.

Draco wished he could just Accio it and cursed the rotten Trace that forbade underage wizards to use magic outside of school. He was not desperate enough to lose his dignity over a piece of parchment though, so after failing to grab it, he straightened his back. ‘Go off then, ruin this for me. You will regret it until your dying day.’

He slammed the door.

. . .

Draco’s Eagle Owl Ulysses arrived an hour after Draco returned at the Manor. Attached to its claw was the parchment with Harry’s address, and a note from Pansy telling Draco he was a dramatic dung-brain.

Tell me something I don’t know, Draco thought.

The next day the weather was so hot Draco could hardly move an inch without needing to drink a gallon of water – and he was bored out of his mind. He’d already written to Pansy, Vincent and Gregory, but they hadn’t replied yet. His parents were both away to visit important friends, and Draco was going absolutely mental with boredom.

Sitting alone on the Grand Staircase in the Manor’s entrance hall, he longed for his friend Potter. He imagined him arriving at their gates: probably watching the Manor with those big starry eyes – looking, as always, like he’d just got back from a treasure hunt; covered in blood and dirt from head to toe. Draco would probably run at him as fast as he could, unable to control himself any longer. He’d haul them both to the ground in sheer excitement, making Harry laugh.

Draco wondered if they would kiss. If Potter truly meant it the way Pansy thought –

But he didn’t, Draco reminded himself. He couldn’t. It didn’t make sense. Potter could snog a different admirer every day for an entire year if he wanted to – what was he talking about, _if?_ There was no question, in Draco’s mind: Potter already did that, no doubt about it. If a pretty girl flung herself at a boy, the boy obliged. Right?

Anyhow, there was no way Harry J. Potter would go all in for loud and scrawny Malfoy, who was not only the wrong gender to even be considered, but also Potter’s worst enemy.

Draco hid his head under his arms, pressing his face on his knees. ‘ _Putain de merde_ …’

He wished Harry was here. He wished he could just ask him what the note meant; if he liked Draco, even at all.

Draco doubted that he existed in Harry’s memory as long as he wasn’t physically in his primary field of vision at real-time. Potter’d screwed him over on the Quidditch field. Would one do that to someone one liked? 

He groaned. ‘ _C’est ridicule_!’

Enraged with his own weakness, he stomped up the stairs to his bedroom, tore off some parchment, scrawled Harry’s address on it and wrote the truth: ‘Potter, I’m bored.’

If Potter didn’t like Draco, he would never reply to this, but it wouldn’t matter, because Draco only wrote it because he was bored. It was brilliant. Such strategy!

He signed it with Harry’s nickname for him: Dra. It was an awful nickname, Draco hated it. He would never allow anyone to call him that – but there was something in the way Harry said it. He pronounced it so…

So… heavenly…

Draco sighed, resisting the temptation to draw little hearts around Potter’s name or to profess his undying love as a postscript. Instead, he clipped the message to Ulysses claw and sent him away.

Immediately, he felt exhausted. Even within the thick, isolating walls of the Manor, the summer heat pressed on him like a heavy weight. The heatwave had lasted for days and the warmth had slowly taken over the ancient building. So, stripping off his clothes as he moved, Draco made his way to his bathroom to take a long, cold bath. As the tub filled, he rummaged through his chock-full bathroom cabinet to pick out some mint oil and a fruity-smelling foam.

Half an hour in fresh scents and cold water revived his spirits greatly, and when he buttoned up a crispy clean, linen shirt, he felt rela–

‘What’s poppin’, son?’

‘AUGH!’

Uncle Barney had flown up through the floor, almost giving Draco a heart attack.

‘Don’t do that,’ Draco snapped.

‘Heard you screaming on the Grand Staircase,’ said Barney,

Draco collapsed on the bed, falling through the ghost. It gave him a chill he rather enjoyed in this heat, so he ordered Barney to fly through him again, and the ghost put his chilly hand on Draco’s forehead. Draco groaned in relief.

‘You looked like you could use a listening ear,’ Barney said. ‘Spill the beans, _mec._ ’

‘Yeah right, as if I can trust you with my secrets,' Draco snarled.

‘Like heck you can,’ said Barney; whatever that meant. ‘Nobody ever listens to this old fool.’

Draco pushed himself up and sat cross-legged across from his ancestor. He smirked. ‘Want to bet you will freak?’

‘Freak? _Moi?_ The last thing I freaked about was the invasion of this here Manor in 1614, my young lad, and I have taken the details of that event to my grave.’

‘As if I don’t know you were already in your grave back then, and _I will_ get you to tell me about it one day.’

‘Never! It was humiliating beyond belief. Your humiliation will pale in comparison!’

Draco waved his hand like he wanted to diffuse the ghost. ‘I doubt it, Uncle Barnaby.’ He fell backwards on the bed. ‘But whatever, get a load of this secret, then: I – Draco Lucius Malfoy – last and only heir of the ancient house of Malfoy – am hopelessly smitten with a _boy_.’

‘What boy?’ said Uncle Barney.

Draco lifted his head to look at him. ‘Are you joking?’ he snarled. ‘What do you mean “what boy?” Who cares _what_ boy, it is a _boy_. A guy. A man. A son of Adam. I should never have even _considered_ him.’

‘A man? Say, _petit_ , how old is this person?’ Barney frowned. ‘I thought we were talking about that spawn of the Potters you could never shut up about for years.’

Draco sighed. ‘Oh, Merlin… Yeah, that’s my guy… I want to marry him.’

Barney sniggered, and in that moment Draco decided to tell him everything: about the Quidditch match and the note, about the letter he just sent off, about Harry’s defeat of the Basilisk – ‘With a _sword_!’ – about the way Potter smiled or the way he fell down and jumped right back up; Draco talked about everything he had locked so safely away in his heart for months, and it felt freeing.

Waving his hand through Draco’s sweaty face, Barney concluded, ‘Sounds like a decent chap.’

Draco closed his eyes. ‘He is not just decent, _dingo_ … He is absolutely perfect in every way.’

‘So?’ said Barney. ‘What’s the issue? Go have fun with him. Life is far too short to worry about what your silly parents would think, believe you me. Keep it secret, for all I care, but you would be surprised– Oh, your owl is back. I am out, bye.’

Another secret Uncle Barnaby would have preferred to take to his grave was how scared he was of birds. You wouldn’t find him near the animals. Back in the 18th century, he’d protested profusely against the peacocks set loose in their garden, and there’d never been a more fervent opponent of the carrier owl than he was. To this day, he pleaded they should have stuck with the old system of using Muggle orphans as their messengers, saying they were multi-functional and also came in handy when one needed, for example, a footstool.

Draco forgot his uncle as soon as he saw the owl, jumping up to let him in. He didn’t dare look at his claw though. Ulysses probably came back without a letter.

He looked anyway; it was impossible not to –

And there was a note! Tearing it off Ulysses’ claw a little to forcefully, he got a jab from his beak. ‘Ouch.’

Draco folded the note open. ‘Potter, I’m bored,’ he read.

His heart fell. Potter hadn’t even read it! Was it the wrong address? ‘Ulysses, what did you –’

As Draco dropped the note, he spotted it: there was something written on the back! That definitely wasn’t there when Draco sent it! Written in thick, black, barely readable scrawls, it said: _‘Don’t you have a mansion with a quidditch field in the backyard?’_

Draco smiled so broadly it hurt his face. Frantically, he got out his quill again:

‘Potter, did you just write your letter on the back of mine? You’re such a savage. And yes, I have a mansion and a quidditch field in the backyard. Your point?’

‘ _Allez, allez, allez!_ ’ He spurred his owl on to deliver the message as fast as possible. ‘ _Je t’aime!_ ’ he shouted after it. ‘Very very much!’ If he learned anything last year, it was that animals understood languages. There was no harm in trying to smarm up to his messenger a bit.

Then he took another bit of parchment to let Pansy know: ‘I wrote him! He wrote back!’

Hopefully he could use one of his parents’ owls to send it. At least it was a way to distract himself until he got Harry’s reply. _If_ he got another reply.

The owlery was on the edge of the meadow that bordered their garden. The meadow was officially Malfoy property as well, but they let Mother Nature run the place. Their real garden was designed by an architect and filled with fountains and little paths surrounded by roses and other flowers, and there were peacocks. It was inspired by the gardens of Versailles, the property of Louis XIV, and designed around the same time too. None of the Malfoys had ever changed it. It was tastefully done.

The Malfoys kept their owls in a small stone tower, no higher than two floors and only a few yards wide. There were small openings and alcoves all around the circular walls, allowing the owls to fly in and out, or to curl up and sleep.

The thick wood of the oaken door often splintered into Draco’s skin, so he pushed it open with his foot. The floor was entirely covered in straw, owl droppings, and the regurgitated skeletons of mice and voles. Mother had put three pairs of boots at the door, next to a little bench where Draco sat down to put them on.

‘Good morning, Agatha,’ he told the ghost floating under the ceiling and cooing at the owls.

‘Oh, oh, he-hello, mister Malfoy,’ she mumbled, before getting back to her birdwatching. With her arms hidden in heavy, felt robes – giving her tall body an oval shape – Agatha Malfoy rather resembled an owl herself. ‘We – we got another one... Ju-just flew in…’ Agatha stammered a lot and never really looked anyone in the eye.

During her breathing years, she’d lived with her brother, who’d allowed her to take care of the owls and looked after her. When he passed on, she quickly followed, after spending weeks in the Owlery without ever coming out to eat. Her death didn’t change much for her. She still refused to ever leave the owls.

‘It’s –’ Agatha tried to speak, but the words got stuck in her throat. ‘It’s –’

‘Count to ten, Auntie,’ Draco drawled, as he got up from the bench to check out the owls. ‘Picture the word in your mind.’

‘It’s…’ She closed her eyes and after a second the word came out: ‘B-brown, sir.’

Draco snorted. ‘Well, isn’t that good to know… Do you have any other important updates for me?’

‘Er, yes, er… Agamemnon has – has a – a strange c-cough, sir.’

Draco bit back a smirk. He kept trying to come up with names for the owls that Agatha would struggle to pronounce, but her mind worked in mysterious ways: she took hours to finish a word like “brown,” yet “Agamemnon” presented no problem.

‘I will let my father know,’ Draco assured her, before ordering her to fetch him an owl to send to the Parkinsons. Within seconds, a big barn owl landed on his arm. Draco gave it a treat as he bound Pansy’s message to its claw, and ducked away when it spread its large wings to fly off.

Agatha watched with her mouth open as it flew out of the tower. ‘Beautiful animals,’ she whispered, like she was seeing the spectacle for the first time.

‘Yeah, marvellous,’ Draco drawled, kicking off his boots at the door.

On the way back to the Manor, he took a detour through the orangery to pick a peach and was once again held up by one of his demented ancestors.

‘Is that you, little Abraxas?’ called his Auntie Mabel Malfoy, who drank herself to death in the eleventh century down in the Malfoy’s wine cellars, after her fifth and last child had moved out.

It had been a tough first few centuries for her, but a few decades ago, she’d started to surround herself with plants and insects, studying them in the Malfoy’s orangery to keep her mind off the booze she couldn’t drink anymore.

‘No, Auntie Mabel,’ Draco called back for what must have been the hundredth time. ‘I am his grandson, Draco. Abraxas died thirty years ago, remember?’

Mabel popped out of a banana tree, wearing a distracted smile. ‘Abraxas, darling, come look at the butterflies.’

Draco sighed. ‘ _Zut alors_ , I just wanted –’

His voice trailed off when he rounded the banana tree and came eye-to-eye with a dozen cornflower-blue butterflies, every one of them as big as his hand.

‘We never had so many before,’ said Mabel, who was beaming and swirling her hands around them. ‘Are they not the most gorgeous creatures you ever saw? They light up at night, you know, it is a wonderful sight.’

‘Awesome,’ Draco murmured.

‘My mother always said: butterflies in our orangery means great fortunes in our lives. It will be good year for us, _mon chou_.’ The butterflies flew straight through Aunt Mabel. It made her giggle. ‘I haven’t felt so alive since 1083…’

Draco smirked. ‘That’s nice, Auntie Mabel... Treasure the small things.’

Ignoring the rest of her swoons, he swaggered off to grab a peach.

When he finally made it back to his room without any further interruptions by his undead relatives, Ulysses had returned – with a fresh new note!

Or… not so fresh at all. It was a flimsy piece of paper, almost tearing when Draco took it off the owl’s claw. In printed letters at the top it said “Chevron Gas Station” – 

‘A receipt!’ Draco shouted in disgust. ‘Written on a bloody receipt!’

On the back of the receipt, Harry had written:

_‘Dear Mister Malfoy,_

_Sorry for writing on the back of your letter. Is this better?_

_Love,  
Potter’_

‘Oh,’ Draco whispered, pressing the flimsy trash to his heart.

 _Love_ …

Carefully he put the letter between two pieces of parchment and pressed it flat in one of the thickest books in his bookcase. Then he tore off another piece of parchment:

_‘Potter, HOW DARE YOU. This is an AWARD WINNING Eagle Owl, and I am a MALFOY.’_

Harry _had_ to step up his game, Draco thought. This simply would not do.

When Draco held the letter out to Ulysses, the owl hopped away.

‘Please, only this one, _please_.’ Draco held a treat in front of him and kept begging until the owl gave in, but it was clear that Draco had to come up with a better way to talk to Potter. There were not enough owls in the world to message him continuously like this. There was also no way he could go and visit him with the Muggles, and Harry probably had no transportation to the Manor. Either they had to write long letters and wait forever for a reply or Draco had to figure something out.

Remembering their attic filled with magical heirlooms, Draco ran up the stairs, through the corridor, up another set of stairs and through yet another corridor. There he could climb the spiral staircase through the East Tower that lead to the attic of the Manor.

Panting, he leaned against the wall next to the attic door. This better be worth it, he thought, and he wondered why he even bothered trying so hard: Potter could forget about him and stop writing any moment. Then, he shook his head. He did this because he was bored, he reminded himself. There was nothing more to it than that, just plain, old, casual boredom.

Looking around at the shelves and shelves of heirlooms, he pondered where to start searching. Draco’s mother and the house elves had ordered everything in the attic into labelled boxes, but there were still massive amounts of boxes, and under what label would he find something useful?

_Peck peck peck._

Draco’s heart skipped a beat – but no, he still had enough sense to know it couldn’t be Potter’s owl yet. Ulysses wasn’t _that_ fast.

Making his way around the filing cabinets to get a view of the window, Draco spotted the owl from the owlery sitting on the windowsill. He hurried to open the window and get Pansy’s note.

‘I’m coming over!’ was all it said.

As he groaned, Draco bumped his head at the window frame. He estimated the chance of her guessing he was in the attic at approximately 0,034% There was nothing to it but to walk _all_ the way back to the drawing room to collect her from the Grand Fireplace.

‘Pansy!’ he shouted as he ran downstairs again. ‘PANSINGTON!’

‘Draco?!’ he faintly heard in reply.

‘I’M AT THE ATTIC!’ he shouted.

‘What?!’

He ran and ran and finally arrived at the landing of the first floor. There he tried not to wheeze too much, holding onto the banister of the balcony overlooking the entrance hall. ‘Do not say “what”, darling,’ he squeaked. ‘Say “excuse me.”’

‘Shut up, you! Let me see the letter! Was it _romantic_?! Ooh, please, Draconius, what did he write?!’

‘None of your business,’ he snarled, stepping down to grab her arm. ‘Follow me. I have a task for you.’

‘I am not here to fulfill your little chores, Malfoy!’

He turned around to look down on her from the steps of the Grand Staircase. ‘May I remind you, Miss Parkinson,’ he drawled, ‘you are a guest here, and an uninvited one at that. This leaves you in no position to introduce conditions.’

Pansy snorted. ‘ _You’re_ in a mood. Alright, go on then, I’ll follow.’

‘I am _not_ in a mood. This is my regular mood,’ Draco insisted.

‘Sure, babe, what did you write him?’

Draco sighed. ‘ _J’ai simplement écrit: “Je m'ennuie_.”’

‘In English, you prat!’

Pansy never appreciated Draco’s talents.

‘ _Non_.’

The long way up to the attic, Pansy refused to say anything, but this could only be considered a blessing to Draco.

‘I need a quicker way to talk to him than owls,’ he explained in the lovely silence. ‘It has to be something he can use without attracting the attention of the Muggles.’

‘What Muggles?’

‘You know nothing?’ he scoffed. ‘Harry Potter _lives_ with Muggles.’

‘Oh, horrid fate!’ she replied, suitably affected. ‘Explains a lot, though, doesn’t it?’

‘His aunt and uncle adopted him and they are horrible Muggles. We all know Muggles are boring, which is bad enough, but these Muggles actually tortured him. You’d think the bar was low…’

Pansy frowned. No doubt she was imagining little Potter getting hurt by dull looking Muggles. Draco knew that not only was she a visual thinker, but she detested abuse of power. He gave her a moment to process her rage.

‘Let's find something useful. Where do you think we should look?’ he asked her.

She thought for a while. ‘Postal stuff? Mail?’

‘Right, you look at the P-section, I look at the M-section.’

And so they did – but alas, none of the boxes were labelled ‘mail’ nor ‘postal stuff’.

‘Letters,’ Pansy thought out loud as she strolled to the L-section.

‘Communication!’ Draco rushed to the C-section.

‘Lots of letters!’ yelled Pansy. ‘Not what you’re looking for, I reckon. Some are… spicy, though. Oooh, mmm! Draco, come look at this!’

But Draco had found a box marked ‘Communication’. It was filled to the brim with magical heirlooms. ‘ _Nom d’une pipe_ … Come help me, Parky.’

They put the box on the floor and took out every item one by one. Most of the stuff didn’t make any sense to either of them.

‘I think this is a bell,’ Pansy pondered, as she held a heavy iron bell.

‘I ought to pay you for this,’ drawled Draco, and she clunked him on the head with it, almost giving him a concussion. ‘Ouch!’

She threw it back in the box and folded her arms. ‘I am not touching any more of this. Malfoy stuff always has the most horrible curses.’

‘With good reason,’ snarled Draco. The only way people could know about their curses was by crossing multiple, well-established boundaries. ‘Go check “Stationary.”’

She scowled at him and only reluctantly got up when Draco pushed her a few times. As she strolled off, Draco burrowed through the box and took out something soft. It was a human ear.

‘AAUGH!’

Pansy laughed her head off.

‘Who saves this?!’ Draco’s voice cracked in fright, and Pansy took charge by putting the box back on the shelf. ‘Told you so. Let’s look at Stationary and then were done. We can ask your mumsy tonight.’

Tonight, Draco thought miserably, that was ages away. Potter would have forgotten all about him by then.

‘We’ll say it’s for us two.’ Pansy grinned, and Draco smirked.

‘You know, she still thinks we are engaged.’

‘But you are Potter’s,’ Pansy swooned. 

Draco felt himself smiling and swaying slightly on his feet. He ran his finger along the shelves as they walked from the C-section to the S-section.

He was Potter’s. And Potter was his.

‘Bit of a nasty shock when she finds out,’ he mumbled. ‘They really do _not_ like him, my parents. Apparently, he has somehow lost us our House Elf, but that can’t be all. I think they’re keeping something from me. Something he did to them.’

‘Like,’ Pansy smirked as they found the Stationary-box, ‘defeating the Dark Lord?’

Draco frowned. ‘That’s ancient history. That can’t be it.’

‘Look at this,’ she said, pulling out a bundle of postcards from the Stationary-box, tied together with brown string. ‘It feels Magical. Here, feel it.’

It did feel Magical, but it didn’t look it. They were plain, vintage postcards.

‘What do they do?’

Pansy looked through the bundle. ‘There’s two of each. Oh, these ones have addresses on them!’

Draco snatched them from her. ‘Septimus Malfoy, Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England,’ he read. ‘Rosalie Rosier, Palais de Rosier, Toulouse, France.’

The text on both postcards was exactly the same, in the same handwriting on the exact same place. ‘ _À bientôt, mon coeur._ ’

Pansy took a quill out of the box and drew a skull on one of the postcards. The letters vanished and the skull appeared on the other postcard as well. The two of them gasped. Draco felt like shrieking and kissing Pansy, but swallowed the urge.

‘That will do,’ he drawled instead, taking the bundle from Pansy.

When they got back to his bedroom, a white owl sat on his windowsill. Draco caught his breath. ‘That’s Potter’s owl! Where’s Ulysses?’

‘It’s pretty,’ said Pansy, stroking the owl’s feathers. It nuzzled into Pansy’s hand at once.

On the pet’s claw was a golden piece of paper. Smiling already, Draco took it and read:

_‘Do you like the gold, Dra? This is the best I can do for now, but I’ll try to buy proper Malfoy-worthy paper if I can._

_X_

_P.S. We exhausted your Award Winning Eagle Owl, so I sent Hedwig. I’ll send yours back after dark.’_

Draco petted the owl. ‘Hedwig,’ he mumbled. It was a fairly nice name.

He’d let his guard down and was punished for it when Pansy grabbed the note from his hands. ‘A chocolate wrapper!’ she yelled. ‘Affronting!’

‘Be quiet,’ Draco said, failing to grab the letter back.

‘”Do you like the gold, Dra?”’ she read aloud at top volume. ‘I _hate_ that he calls you Dra!’

Draco beamed. ‘Me too…’

‘”I’ll try to buy proper Malfoy-worthy paper if I can.” Oh, he’d better!’

‘It doesn’t matter, we’re sending him these.’

As he said it, he was already writing Harry’s address on one of the cards and his own address on the other. He’d chosen the _Greetings from London_ cards, because they lived in England. Rosalie Rosier had used the _Bisous de Paris_ -card, and the other options were ‘ _Groetjes uit Amsterdam’_ and ‘ _Baci da Roma’._

‘An X!’ Pansy shrieked, startling Draco. ‘He wrote an X! That means a kiss!’

‘It’s not a kiss, dweeb, it’s just short for “Cheers! Your buddy Harry J. Potter.” People write X’s instead of their name all the time, have done for ages. Look it up.’

‘Only when they can’t write.’

‘Well, Potter can hardly write,’ Draco scoffed.

Pansy snorted. ‘True.’

The message accompanying the postcard was as short as possible. Draco didn’t want to reveal how hard he was trying.

‘I… love… you…’ Pansy whispered. Draco looked up. She had another quill in her hand and was writing on one of the cards. ‘Most… ardently.’

With a terrified shriek, Draco pushed Pansy away from the postcards. ‘NO!’

The cards were still blank. Pansy was rolling on the floor laughing.

‘Hilarious,’ Draco drawled, still panting from shock. ‘ _Zut alors_. You cost me years of my life.’

It only fuelled Pansy’s laughing fit.

Quickly, Draco finished his message and sent it with the Postcard back to Harry. He couldn’t wait to see if they worked.

‘Let’s get something to eat,’ said Pansy.

Draco took his postcard with him. He took it with him for the rest of that summer, actually, everywhere he went.

. . .

‘DRACO!’

Draco bolted upright in his bed in the dark, gasping in shock. ‘What? What –’

‘Drakey-snakey, remember Cousin Ferdinand?’

Draco blinked in the dark and could vaguely spot the see-through outline of his Uncle Barney. He groaned, pulling his pillow over his head. ‘ _Va-t’en,_ Uncle Barnaby. I am sleeping.’

‘I have been searching for days. Your mother should stop tidying up, you know, the whole system is messed up.’

‘Do not badmouth my mother,’ Draco snarled.

‘I love your mother,’ said Barney emphatically. ‘A lot _..._ Now, get up, _mec_ , I have to show you something. Up, up!’

Groaning like an old man, Draco rolled out of bed and put on slippers and a thick, velvet housecoat. ‘I hate you.’

‘You are going to love this,’ Barney cheered. ‘ _Allons-y_.’

They made their way through the dark corridors of the Manor, where torches and chandeliers lit up and extinguished to light their path.

‘Master Malfoy,’ complained the portraits of his ancestors, squinting in the light, ‘this is no hour for a walk!’

'I agree,' Draco snarled, casting his uncle a sour look.

‘The lavatory is to the right, you know.’

‘Why can’t this wait ‘til morning?’ Draco drawled.

Barney laughed. ‘Oh, best not to risk that, _petit_ , trust me. Wait 'till you see it!’

Draco followed Barney all the way down to the library, where his uncle floated up to the ceiling to point out a thick, ancient book, all the while giggling excitedly.

Groggily, Draco pushed a ladder towards it and climbed up to get it. ‘History of Botanica,’ Draco read. ‘ _Non, Oncle Barnaby!_ _Pourquoi_ –’

‘Get down, son, be careful,’ said Barney. ‘You would not believe how many a grandchild I have watched go cripple that way.’

Scowling, Draco did as he was told. With a heavy thud he put the book on a table and lifted it open. While Draco got a coughing fit from the dust, Barney launched into a laughing fit.

Inside the book someone had cut out a big square block from the pages, creating some sort of a secret compartment. They’d used the book to hide something.

Draco picked up some pieces of parchments hidden inside the compartment. They seemed to be works of art. Looking closer in the light of the library’s chandeliers, he could make out pictures of men. Men in… unusual positions and… rather scarcely clad.

Draco closed the book with a slam. ‘Uncle Barnaby,’ he hissed, feeling his cheeks burn, ‘no!’

While Draco wanted the floor to swallow him whole, Barney almost choked with laughter. ‘Well? Will they work for you?’

Draco glared at him. ‘Is this your way of showing support?’

Barney wiped away tears of laughter. ‘Come on, you wuss, take a proper gander. What d’you reckon?’ He used his chaotic ghost magic to throw the book open again. 

Draco averted his eyes, and drawled, ‘Why do you have this?’

‘It’s our old Cousin Ferdinand’s secret stash! Oh, come now, little prude, feast your pretty eyes. I know you want to.’

‘I am really uncomfortable. You do know I am fourteen, right?’

‘Well then! So much for doing your favourite grandson a favour!’ He laughed some more.

Draco shook his head in exasperation. ‘If you don’t mind, I will be going back to bed now.’

‘Your choice, I suppose…’ Barney sniggered. ‘Well, at least you know where to find them now. For future reference! I will not judge, you know!’

‘Yeah,’ Draco drawled as he put the book back on the shelf. ‘Thanks, Uncle Barnaby…’

Barney let out a barking laugh. ‘Just remember, son: pornography sets unrealistic expectations. You should always use a good lu–’

‘Please, stop talking.’ Draco made his way back to his chambers with his fingers in his ears.

. . .

‘Good morning,’ Draco read as soon as he woke up and checked the postcard. Smiling, he wiped the sleep out of his eyes and picked up the quill on his nightstand. ‘Good morning, Mister Potter. What did you dream about?’

‘About you, actually.’

Draco cried out in triumph.

‘We were playing Quidditch,’ Harry wrote.

‘Did I beat you?’

‘That only happens in your dreams,’ Harry replied smartly. 

Draco did not feel like discussing getting beat by Potter at Quidditch. It was a slippery slope to a fight about fair play. 

‘Allow me to properly wake up before insulting me,’ Draco wrote back, before getting dressed and descending the stairs to get some breakfast. The voice of his father floated through the open dining room door to the entrance hall.

‘It has never been this clear, not since –’

His parents were standing by the large dining room window. Father had been holding his sleeve up to show Mother something, but before Draco could say ‘good morning’ his father had covered his arm again and Mother was pouring them all some tea.

Draco stopped in his tracks. ‘What is it?’

‘Weird mole,’ said his father with a distracted frown.

‘I can write my sister about it,’ offered Draco’s mother.

‘Good idea,’ said Father. ‘I will ask Goyle. He knows about these things.’

‘Maybe call the news too,’ jeered Draco. ‘Why not write the Daily Prophet right now? Is it the shape of old Merlin by any chance? We should think of a way to monetize this, you see.’

‘Hush, Draconius,’ his mother said in a sigh, but his father complimented his use of the word ‘monetize’.

Draco sat up a little straighter. ‘Why are we talking so much about a mole?’

‘Do not worry your little head, Draconius.’

‘I am not _worried_. I suspect you are _lying_. You see, I cannot accept that.’

‘Chocolate bread or croissant?’

‘Chocolate bread.’ Taking a large bite out of it, he noticed new words appearing on the postcard.

‘Sorry,’ Harry wrote. ‘What’s your favourite colour? Gold?’

Licking his fingers, Draco picked up his quill. ‘Gold is a chemical element, dung-brain, not a colour.’

‘You’re fun,’ said Harry. ‘What colour does gold have then?’

Draco frowned. It was legit a fair question. He asked his father, ‘What colour is gold?’

It took him a second, then his father replied, ‘Golden.’

‘Golden,’ wrote Draco to Harry, grinning broadly.

He could swear he heard Harry sighing all the way from Surrey.

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Harry repeated. ‘GoldEN?’

Draco stifled his laughter. ‘No. Green.’ He considered drawing a little eye, but didn’t dare.

‘Slytherin to the bone,’ said Harry.

‘Who are you writing with, Draco dear?’ asked Draco’s mother.

‘Pansy,’ Draco lied smoothly, not looking up from the card to write, ‘How are the Muggles treating you today?’

As he took another bite of the chocolate bread, Harry’s words appeared. ‘They mostly ignore me. It’s fine.’

Draco wiped his mouth and quickly scribbled. ‘You wouldn’t have this problem if you’d let the basilisk get on with it.’

‘You know I don’t like those jokes.’

‘Not a joke! Your Muggle family deserves a gruesome death even more than any other Muggles.’

Chewing and chewing, Draco stared at the card, but nothing happened. Harry stopped replying.

‘ _Merde_ ,’ Draco mumbled. His father shouted his name and he jumped. ‘ _Je m’excuse – flute,_ ’ he corrected. 

‘That is not better,’ said his mother.

Ignoring the both of them, Draco took a second chocolate bread to go, and made his way to check on the owlery, where Ulysses had returned with a letter from Pansy.

She asked if Draco liked to come over to let Poppy dye his hair. This was no question.

After strolling back to his parents to let them know where he was going, he jumped into the Grand Fireplace to Floo to the Parkinson Property. ‘Pansington!’ he shouted into their drawing room, filled with a disproportionally large, golden chandelier and a faux-vintage sofa with purple velour upholstery and golden buttons. ‘Parky Parky Pansington!’

Nimbostratus ran at him, nuzzling his ankles. He bent down to pet it behind his ears.

‘Draconius?’

Pansy sounded far away, but footsteps were running towards him from nearby. They belonged to Poppy, who was cheering and jumping in excitement. ‘What colour, Draco, what colour?’

‘Let me consult my future husband,’ Draco answered while taking out the postcard with a flourish.

‘What’s your favourite colour?’ he asked Potter.

‘Dunno,’ wrote Harry, still sounding sulky.

‘Decide, Potter. I’m getting my hair dyed and I need to choose a colour.’

‘Hot pink,’ Potter replied.

‘Hot pink,’ Draco answered Poppy’s question.

Pansy was laughing scathingly, somewhere in the background.

That morning and much of the afternoon were spent on the enormous, marble-and-golden fountain on the Parkinsons’ driveway, while Nimbostratus purred loudly on Pansy’s lap and Poppy worked on Draco’s hair. The fountain’s water was magically clean and the perfect temperature for washing your hair on a summer’s day. It had about twelve different nozzles, each spraying a different amount of water. At night it lit up, flashing different colours every second.

‘Ask him how he will be heroic this year,’ said Pansy, motioning at the postcard.

‘Will you be a hero again this year?’ Draco wrote.

‘Shut up,’ replied Potter, ‘I never asked for it.’

‘Oh come on, stud, you love it,’ Draco wrote.

It took a while before he got a reply to that. First, a little smiley appeared, followed a few seconds later by, ‘You know I don’t. I just want a normal year. That is all I wish for.’

Pansy let out a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, I bet that’s not _all_ he wishes for…’

‘Hush, you trollop.’

‘OOH!’ yelled Pansy and Poppy.

‘How did you find the Chamber of Secrets?’ Draco wrote next.

‘Got lucky I suppose,’ said Harry.

‘I’m dying to know,’ wrote Draco, underlining the word ‘dying’ three times.

Harry wrote terribly slowly. ‘Hermione found out the monster was a basilisk and that it moved through the pipes in the walls. Ron and I figured it had come out in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. I’d never have found it by myself.’

Draco’s mouth fell open. Quickly he scribbled, ‘The Chamber of Secrets is in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom?!’

‘The entrance, yeah. The Basilisk killed Myrtle there.’

Draco gasped. He never knew!

‘Isn’t he amazing?’ Draco hissed at Pansy, who’d been reading over his shoulder.

‘It is fairly spectacular,’ she reluctantly drawled.

‘Is it true you killed the monster with a sword?’ Draco wrote, messing up his handwriting in his eagerness.

‘Yes. It sounds cooler than it was though. I got lucky.’

‘He’s so sweet,’ Draco whispered, before writing, ‘How do you know how to fight with a sword?’

For a few seconds, Harry didn’t reply. Then his scrawls started appearing again. ‘All Muggles know,’ he wrote. ‘It’s taught in primary school.’

Pansy squinted. ‘Is he joking?’

Draco scratched his head. ‘I’m not sure…’ He decided to change the subject, just to be safe. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Writing with you.’

Pansy took the quill from Draco with force and drew a little heart.

Draco gasped. ‘No! _Pansy_!’

‘He’s blind as a bat, he won’t notice.’

‘He has glasses! They were invented so people like Potter can see! Read – a – book!’ He slapped her head until she was shrieking with laughter.

Holding his head in blind panic, Draco watched the heart melt away. A tiny drawing of a happy face appeared. Round spectacles were added to it. Then, as a cherry on top, Harry drew a heart too, with a little line attaching it to the smiling Potter-face.

Draco’s heart simply stopped. He flung the postcard away from him, groaning, ‘He is killing me.’

. . .

Draco’s new, hot pink hairdo did not fare well at the Malfoy Manor. There was no shouting, or words in any form for that matter, but when Draco swaggered into the parlour that evening, his parents simply rose from their seats. With looks of utter terror on their faces, they gazed down upon their son, and with one flick of her wand, Mother turned his hair back to normal.

Poppy’s two-hour labour gone in a second; Draco decided to retreat to his chambers.

‘Draco,’ his father called after him. ‘We have a surprise for you.’

He was not in the mood. ‘Am I getting a brother or sister?’ he snarled.

‘Sit.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I say so,’ said his father. ‘Do not make me raise my voice.’

Scowling, he did as he was told, and in return received an expensive looking envelope. It was blue with a pattern of golden snitches.

Father gestured, ‘Open up!’

Draco folded it open and took out three pieces of thick paper –

They were tickets. In big black letters they read: Quidditch World Cup; Top box, second row.

Draco screamed deafeningly. ‘Top box seats! The World Cup! Best! Gift! Ever!’

He ran upstairs to tell Vincent, Gregory, Pansy and Harry, and they were all _green_ with envy!

Draco screamed until his voice gave up. He was going to the World Cup!

. . .

No matter how Draco called for their House Elves, neither of them appeared. Grumpy, he went down to the kitchen to make them pay.

‘He’s at a terribly difficult age,’ Draco overheard his mother saying as he strolled past the drawing room. ‘You will not believe what he did to his hair the other day.’

Draco remembered his parents saying they were having tea with friends, who – coincidentally – also happened to be important ministry people. That may have been what the House Elves were busy with too, he reckoned.

‘There is no telling anymore what he will like.’

He stopped to listen at the door. Were they talking about him?

‘Oh, ours is exactly the same!’ doted a woman. ‘Completely in her own world!’

‘This event will do them good,’ said a low voice. ‘Sports conciliate.’

‘Well said!’ said Father.

‘The game element of this Tournament will keep the attention of even the most difficult youngster, I assure you that,' said a pompous man's voice. 'And meeting new people, exchanging cultures, that is always good for morale. Fresh blood.’

‘Who knows what might come off it!’ shrieked the woman. ‘Ooh, I wish I would have had this opportunity as a teen. How thrilling to meet someone from Durmstrang or Beauxbatons…’

‘We were over the moon when Fudge told us the plans, were we not, Narcissa?’ said Father.

Draco tried to understand what he heard. They were talking about him, Draco; about a game, a Tournament; and about meeting people from different schools. Was there some sort of plan for next schoolyear? An exchange program of sorts?

As soon as his parents closed the door behind their Important Friends, Draco stepped out of the library, where he had been lurking and writing with Harry about Quidditch and what they would like to be when they grew up. Potter had no clue yet, the silly little nincompoop, so Draco tried to convince him to become a firefighter, because it was one of his favourite fantasies to be saved from a burning Manor by Firefighter Potter. That last bit he had kept to himself.

‘Father?’ Draco said, following his parents into the parlour. ‘Is something special going to happen next year?’

His father’s eyes started gleaming. ‘Aha, little sneak! We are not allowed to tell you.’

‘I can keep a secret.’

Father glanced at his wife. ‘There _might_ be something special happening.’

‘A Tournament?’ Draco asked. ‘Are we going to Durmstrang? Or Beauxbatons?’

His father looked proud. ‘Where did you learn to be such a good spy, Dragon-child?’

‘Answer me,’ said Draco.

‘You will stay at Hogwarts… but perhaps –’

‘Oh Lucius, do not spoil the surprise.’

Father pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key. Both of Draco’s parents laughed.

‘Who wants apple pie?’ said Mother. ‘To celebrate!’

Apple pie was Draco’s favourite. He allowed himself to be distracted.

. . .

One morning at the end of August, Draco woke up late to a message of Harry with a sore lack of interpunction.

‘Dra you’ll never guess I’m going too! The Weasley’s pick me up tomorrow have to pack’

A heart was added to ease the pain, but the fact remained that Harry did not respond anymore to any of Draco’s questions.

Thankfully, Draco’s pain only lasted a day. Because the next morning the Malfoy family left home bright and early for the game of all games. It was time for the Quidditch World Cup.

When they finally reached the stadium, the Malfoys had to keep climbing the stairs to the top box – climbing and climbing and climbing forever and -ever – until finally they reached the top of the staircase, where they found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows –

And a long line of red heads filled the front row seats.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ snarled Draco’s father.

‘Are our seats worse than the Weasleys?’ snapped Draco. ‘ _Ç'est des conneries_!’

‘Draco!’ hissed Mother. ‘French is not to be used as a way to utter profanity!’

‘Give me the tickets.’ He snatched them from his mother and indeed, Draco and his parents were at the second row, not the first. Draco had assumed the first row was reserved for the most important ministry officials – he had definitely not expected any Weasley scum.

‘Boys!’ Draco’s mother used her Medusa-look on them to get their attention, then straightened her back, looking equally disgusted and dignified. ‘Let them have it. We are here to have a good time, and those poor people have nothing else besides this. Let us take pity on the less fortunate.’

Draco and his father snorted in unison.

There was no other option for them but to start making their way to their seats on the second row.

While doing so, Draco’s eye fell on something that made him falter: the boy he had been writing with all summer was sitting on the first row as well, in between Weasley and Granger.

Was this what Harry had meant with “I’m going too”? Draco’s heart fell; it would have been so much fun to talk about it together. Why hadn’t Harry responded?

‘Ah, and here’s Lucius!’ Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, announced their arrival.

At once, Potter, Weasley and the Mudblood all turned around. Staring was rude, Draco’d been taught, and now he knew why. Their stares made him feel on edge.

‘Ah, Fudge,’ said Draco’s father, holding out his hand as he reached the Minister of Magic. ‘How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?’

‘How do you do, how do you do?’ said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Draco’s mother.

Draco shook the minister’s hand, trying his best to smile. As he did, he heard his father softly talk to Mr. Weasley. ‘Good lord, Arthur, what did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?’

Draco bit his lip to stop himself from sniggering. 

Fudge, who wasn’t listening, turned to Mr. Weasley as well. ‘Lucius has just given a very generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.’

Smirking, Father looked aside at Draco, who started to feel like a zoo animal under the continued stares of Potter, Weasley and Granger. Almost unnoticeably, Father tapped underneath his own chin. Draco swiftly straightened his back.

‘How – how nice,’ said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Draco’s father nodded sneeringly and they continued down the line to their seats. Draco lost his temper and glared at Weasley and Granger until they finally looked away.

Settling himself safely between his mother and father, Draco felt suddenly glad for their second row seats. At least he didn’t have to feel everyone’s eyes in his neck. He was going to have a great time, he solemnly resolved.

. . .

Loud noises outside their tent woke him up. It was dark, but his parents were hastily getting dressed.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Draco sleepily.

‘Nothing, dear,’ said his mother, pulling the blanket over Draco again. ‘Your father and I are going to take a walk.’

‘Why?’

‘I cannot sleep,’ said Father cheerfully. ‘No need to worry, Dragonchild, we will be back – before morning, probably.’

His mother shot him a look that Draco did not miss, and his father smirked.

‘What is that noise?’ He tried climbing out of bed, but his father put a stern hand on his shoulder to guide him back in. ‘Fireworks. They are having a party.’

Draco’s eyes lit up, so Mother quickly added, ‘Muggle fireworks. We have Protection spells on the tent, now go back to sleep. Adults need fresh air; children need sleep.’

‘We do night walks all the time,’ his father claimed.

Draco knew perfectly well that they were lying. He did not care for it, but he also knew from experience they would never tell him if they hadn’t already by now – so he climbed back in bed and pretended to be a good lad.

‘Good lad,’ said his father. ‘What do you say we bake banana pancakes tomorrow morning?’

‘I would say I want ten,’ said Draco. He pretended to yawn, turning his back to them and pulling the blanket over his chin. ‘Good night…’

His parents left. Draco waited and listened. The noises outside were certainly not Muggle fireworks. He heard people shouting; it sounded – frightened? He wondered if that was possible.

No, it couldn’t, he told himself. His parents would never leave him alone in harm’s way.

He heard footsteps – running footsteps, and lots of them. Maybe his parents were assessing the situation. They would come back in a second to take Draco somewhere safer.

His curiosity won over. Quietly getting out of bed, he listened closely if he heard his parents come back. At the opening of the tent he raised his ears.

‘We’re going to help the Ministry!’ someone shouted. A lot of what was said after it got muffled by more bangs and shouts in the distance, but he thought he heard someone say, ‘get into the woods, stick together.’

This was definitely not fireworks, and clearly not a situation that called for a casual stroll. Where did his parents run off to?

He decided to get dressed. If his parents got back for him, he reckoned he’d better be prepared to leave.

Sitting on his bed, fully dressed, Draco lost his patience. His parents were not coming to get him out of there, but he had every right to know what was going on.

‘ _Mince_ ,’ Draco cursed; they hadn’t packed his wand. He had to get out there completely unprotected. _Tant pis_ , he thought, and feeling naked without it, he stepped outside to see what was going on.

People were running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light, and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter, and drunken yells were drifting toward him.

A crowd of wizards wearing awesome masks, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose from the wands into the air.

Draco sniggered. It looked like something aunty Bel might do. Mother was always talking about the ways her sister tried to make everyone laugh with the things she did to take revenge on those horrible Muggles. She’d clearly been a very creative person, before she got send to Azkaban by the current regime.

One summer, Pansy and Draco had done a puppeteer-marionette act that looked exactly like what was happening with these Muggles now. Draco had been the marionette and made everyone laugh. It had been great fun. 

More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Draco saw the marchers blast tents out of their way with their wands. Several caught fire, so Draco ran towards it. He enjoyed a good fire as much as the next person.

One of the marchers below flipped the Muggle woman upside down with his wand; her night dress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee. Draco cried from laughing: that was the ugliest underwear he had ever seen.

As the wizards marched past, a hand grabbed his shoulder. ‘What did we tell you!’ his father boomed.

‘You cannot stop me from looking,’ Draco snapped back defiantly.

‘Mind your mother and stay in the tent!’

‘I will only sneak out again. Just go back to your little party. I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me.

‘You cannot be seen here,’ his father shouted over the roar of the crowd. ‘Get into the forest. Watch from there if you must, but do not let people see you!’

His father pushed him along, away from the march, and sulking, Draco took off.

He wondered where his mother was. Maybe she was walking with the masked wizards and witches. His father had not worn a mask, but he might have taken it off before Draco noticed them.

Draco wished he had a mask too. If he had, he could have joined the fun without being seen. Maybe he could ask one for his birthday.

The coloured lanterns lighting the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were stumbling through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around him in the cold night air. Draco felt himself being pushed hither and thither and quickly grew tired of it, so he strayed off the path and found a shortcut in the dark. Maybe it was because of his light grey eyes, but he never had trouble seeing in the dark.

He arranged himself between the trees, away from the crowd, enabling him to watch the show at the campsite in peace. After a while, the relative quiet was disturbed by noisy footsteps and a low, slow voice he recognized out of thousands. ‘Hermione?’

Draco turned and saw the golden trio blundering about. They had strayed from the path too.

He stifled his laughter when Weasley tripped over an absolutely _blatant_ tree root. ‘What happened?’ said the Mudblood, stopping so abruptly that Potter walked into her. ‘Ron, where are you?’ she cried helplessly.

Draco had a hard time not to laugh. He leaned against a tree to watch them clown.

‘Oh this is stupid – lumos!’ said the Mudblood. She illuminated her wand and directed its narrow beam across the path. Weasley was lying sprawled on the ground.

‘Tripped over a tree root,’ he said angrily, getting to his feet again.

Draco could not contain himself: ‘Well, with feet that size, hard not to.’

Granger pointed her wand at him, but it still took them literal seconds to recognize him in the dark. Then, Weasley told him to do something that Draco would never have gotten away with saying at the Manor.

‘Language, Weasley,’ said Draco. ‘Hadn’t you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn’t like _her_ spotted, would you?’ He nodded at Granger, and at the same moment, a blast like a bomb sounded from the campsite, and a flash of green light momentarily lit the trees around them.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said the Mudblood defiantly; stupidly.

‘Granger, they’re after Muggles,’ said Draco, feeling like a kindergarten teacher. ‘Do _you_ want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around… they’re moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh.’

‘Hermione’s a witch.’

It was Harry who’d said that. Before Draco could stop himself, he was looking at him. Harry seemed puzzled. It might have been Draco’s favourite Potter-look: desperate for Draco’s knowledge.

Draco had to force himself not to smile when he said, ‘Have it your own way, Potter. If you think they can’t spot a Mudblood, stay where you are.’

‘You watch your mouth!’ shouted the Weasel.

‘Never mind, Ron,’ said Granger quickly, seizing Weasley’s arm to restrain him as he took a step toward Draco.

There came a bang from the other side of the trees. Several people nearby screamed and Draco chuckled softly. ‘Scare easily, don’t they?’ he said lazily.

That bang was Gregory’s father’s go-to spell to impress people. Draco remembered him and his friends sitting on the Goyle’s patio, fingers in their ears, to watch Gregory’s father point his wand at random objects to make them fly in the air with unnecessarily ground shaking bangs. It had been the best days of summer.

‘Look who’s talking,’ said Harry.

Draco refused to meet his eye. As if Potter knew anything about what scared Draco.

Watching Ron with his stupid large feet, Draco wondered where the other gingers of the pack had gone. They were such goody two-shoes though, Draco could easily guess the answer. ‘I suppose your daddy told you all to hide? What’s he up to – trying to rescue the Muggles?’

‘Where’re _your_ parents?’ asked Potter – vulgarly loud. ‘Are they out there wearing masks?’

Draco hated the judgement in his voice. As if the Potters, during their sweet, short lives, never enjoyed themselves with something slightly illegal. As if this march was a personal insult to him somehow. Loud bangs, fireworks and cheap, poorly protected tents getting blazed in marvellous bonfires – it was all just ordinary summer fun to Draco. But then The Boy Who Lived came along to spoil it. He hadn’t grown up with wizardry; how could he even know how much fun Wizard parties were? They were one hundred percent worth the fines, and outsiders really shouldn't be allowed to have opinions on them anyway, Draco thought. Mother had always told him about the jealousy of the uninvited masses: they snitched.

Reluctantly, Draco turned to face the boy. ‘Well… if they were,’ he drawled. ‘I wouldn’t be likely to tell you, would I, Potter?’

The disappointment on Harry’s face made Draco flinch. The guy had such great talent for making him feel bad.

‘Oh come on,’ said Granger with a disgusted look at Draco, ‘let’s go and find the others.’

‘Keep that big bushy head down, Granger,’ sneered Draco.

‘Come _on_ ,’ the Mudblood repeated, and she pulled Potter and Weasley up the path again.

Draco watched their backs until they were out of sight and couldn’t help but feel resentment. Some part of him wished Harry had stayed with Draco to watch the march. Draco could have told him all about Wizard Parties.

‘ _Bienvenue en Angleterre!_ ’

Draco jumped. The French words sounded angry and sarcastic; Draco’s kind of people!

He swaggered up to them, but they seemed distracted and confused, and apparently they didn’t even know who was with their group and who wasn’t, because they asked him at once if he’d seen someone named Madame Maxim. Laughing on the inside, Draco kept the illusion up and answered them in French. He told them he saw her at the campsite, watching the bonfire. She said it wasn’t safe in the forest, Draco told them, and she sent him to lead them to her.

Striding away, he triumphantly noticed the group meekly following him, jabbering on and on about an exchange programme in the upcoming school year, where the best of their seventh-year students would get the chance to play in an adventurous Tournament, with death defying challenges. There was apparently a fortune to win with it too. It sounded exciting and Draco wished that lame bastard Dumbledore would ever organise something like that – or anything for that matter.

Suddenly, right in the middle of their conversation, people started to scream way worse than before. Someone pointed at the forest behind the group, and whirling around, they saw something vast, green and glittering erupting. It flew up over the tree tops and into the sky.

For a split second, Draco thought it was another leprechaun formation like they saw during the Quidditch game. Then he realized that it formed a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.

Draco recognized it at once – it was an exact copy of his father’s tattoo. He blinked, entirely perplexed, at the sudden appearance of the skull, which had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire grounds like some grisly neon sign.

New sounds made Draco whirl around. The masked wizards were bolting, dropping the Muggles like dead weight. Within seconds the entire vibe had shifted from mischievous excitement to stone cold panic. The group of French students shuffled closer together, and so did Draco, none of them understanding the sudden terror on the campsite. 

A voice pierced through the chaos: ‘DRACO!’

‘DAD!’ Tripping over guy-lines and slipping on wet patches of grass, Draco’d started running before he realised.

‘DRACO!’

It was like a game of Marco Polo, only with a vague, underlying threat.

‘MUM?!’

He bumped into his father when they all turned the corner of a still-standing tent. Before he knew it, he was being suffocated in a smothering family hug. Then, with a faint POP, the noises died down.

Draco looked around, confused. ‘What –’

They were back in Wiltshire. His father slammed open the gate to Malfoy Manor and his mother took Draco’s hand to tow him along the garden path. ‘Inside,’ she breathed.

‘Good evening, sir, my lady…’ The pointed, androgynous face of their soldier ancestor appeared next to them out of the dark forecourt.

‘Not now, Geralt,’ said Draco’s father tensely. He followed at Draco’s heel, looking behind them with his fingers piercing into Draco’s shoulders.

The bloodied ghost of Geralt Malfoy picked up on the vibe at once. Snapping to attention, he drew his sword to guard the family’s back as they made their way to the Manor.

Huddling at the doorstep, Draco’s mother fumbled to unlock the door. Before getting inside, Draco’s father told Geralt they were scaling up to threat level three and all ghosts were to report on any suspicious activity from then on. This seemed to make perfect sense to Geralt, who nodded grimly and took off.

His parents didn’t pay Draco another mind as they started solemnly stepping around the entrance hall, performing spells Draco’d never heard before. They were chanting in a language that Draco didn’t recognize. The magic they performed was not taught at Hogwarts or written in any of Draco’s books. 

In any other situation, Draco would have felt a great urge to make fun of their weird little dance. Now, he quietly sat down at the bench underneath their family portrait. He worried about Harry. All their luggage was still at the campsite, he realised, including the postcard.

Draco’s parents stepped backwards until their shoulders touched. Their fingers intertwined and they closed their eyes. Draco watched in awe.

Taking a deep breath, they turned to Draco. ‘A cup of tea,’ his mother said breathlessly.

Father beckoned Draco and he followed them to the parlour, where Mother rang for tea.

‘What’s going on?’ Draco asked apprehensively, sitting on the edge of his chair. Visions of snakes and skulls, frantic crowds disapparating in a frenzy and the fearful faces of his parents crowded his mind’s eye. He didn’t know what to expect next.

Draco’s parents exchanged a look. Then, his father unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up. Draco got closer and gasped.

For as long as Draco remembered, his dad had a stale, greyish tattoo on his forearm. It had been hardly noticeable. Aunty Bel had the same one, and so had Vincent and Gregory’s fathers. It was a matching tattoo they had gotten when they were young; that was at least what they had told their children. Everyone who had a tattoo like that was part of their friend group, a sort of secret club.

Now, the tattoo was not stale anymore. It looked beautiful: deep, shimmering black, and the snake was moving, circling in and out of the skull’s mouth.

‘I knew it,’ Draco said smugly. He sat up straight. ‘I mean, I knew you weren’t looking at a weird mole. It didn’t make sense, you see.’

‘Listen closely, Draco,’ his father said tersely. ‘What we are about to tell you is strictly confidential. Do you know what that means?’

‘You cannot tell anyone what we are going to tell you,’ said his mother. ‘Not even Pansy or Vincent or Gregory. It is very important that you keep this a secret. Do you understand?’

Draco nodded. He felt intimidated, but proud. He was good with secrets. He could prove it. 

‘This tattoo is what we call “the Dark Mark”. It is the symbol of the Dark Lord.’ His father paused to allow Draco to let that sink in.

Draco knew his parents and their friends were big fans of the Dark Lord, so it made sense that their secret club choose his symbol for their tattoo.

‘Me, Mr. Goyle, Mr. Crabbe, Aunt Bellatrix,’ Father continued, ‘we are Death Eaters.’

Death Eaters… Draco had heard that term before. Didn’t he read about them in Harry Potter’s biography?

‘Do you know what that means, Draco?’ asked his mother.

‘They are the followers of the Dark Lord,’ Draco recalled.

‘They are not simply followers,’ scoffed his father. ‘They are an _extension_ of the Dark Lord. They are his executives, confidants, his sounding board. They are his right arm and his left arm. His eyes, his mind, his tong–’

‘Alright, Lucius,’ Mother cut in. ‘Remember who you are married to.’

Father showed an abashed smirk and took her hand. ‘How can I forget? Look, Draco, we told you about the things Muggles have done to us. To us and to our ancestors. When I was young, this made me very angry. It still makes me very angry. In Hogwarts, me and my friends talked about it a lot. Your mother’s older sister – your Aunty Bel – introduced us to the Dark Lord. He was capable of great things and we were all in awe of him. There was none so powerful, nor has there _ever_ been _anyone_ as powerful as the Dark Lord. They said he was immortal, and he could read minds like no other.’ Father’s eyes lit up. ‘I have seen him do it, you know. He could use Legilimency to torture people – do you remember that, my lady?’ He snorted. ‘Old Dorky Meadowes? How he so marvellously –…’

Fondly, Draco’s mother shook her head. ‘Lucius…’

‘Right,’ his father said. ‘I digress… Back when I was at Hogwarts, there was talk of a secret society, filled with people whose ideals aligned perfectly with those of me and my friends; other people who did not agree with the way Wizards are forced to hide away, who were organizing to set things right. Me and my friends all wanted to join, to help with the good cause, but Bellatrix was the first to succeed. When she showed us her Dark Mark we were all green with envy, and within weeks, she managed to get me and my friends accepted to join the Dark Lord’s inner circle too. We all received the Dark Mark from him personally. We became Death Eaters.’ His face glowed with pride and Draco’s mother kissed his cheek.

‘Wow,’ said Draco reverently. ‘Can I see it again?’ He held out his hands and his father showed him. He even let him touch it, and Draco scrutinize it from every angle, to see if it was as 3D as it looked. It was not. ‘It looks so cool! Can I have one?’

‘No,’ his mother snapped without missing a beat.

‘I mean, when I’m seventeen then,’ Draco pleaded.

His mother looked livid. ‘You will never get it for as long as I live, Draco, now drop it.’

Draco and his father exchanged a look.

‘Now let your father finish.’

‘Right, well – where was I?’

‘You became Death Eaters,’ said Draco helpfully.

‘Ah of course. Well, the Dark Lord’s powers did not disappoint,’ Father continued. ‘He kept every promise he had made when we joined, it was unbelievable. He showed extraordinary abilities, many of which were thought impossible, and he very quickly earned the reputation of the most powerful and dangerous dark wizard of all time, surpassing even Gellert Grindelwald. Me and my friends got front row views of all the marvels he accomplished. He found out what my father had done to the Prime Minister – which had greatly paved the way for our cause – and he asked me to be his second in command; the greatest honour a Death Eater could receive. It was the best time of our lives, was it not, my heartbeat?’

Draco’s mother smiled. ‘Absolutely. We were on top of the world.’

They shared elated looks and Father continued. ‘You see, like me, the Dark Lord was a strategist, and like me, he was not scared of getting what he wanted – what we all wanted – or to use any means necessary to get it. Him and me, we made a great team. Everything I know, I learnt from him. However…’ 

Wringing his hands, the pride on his father’s face faded into worry. 

‘That all ended unexpectedly, one fateful night. The Dark Lord had planned an attack on his own. He insisted on going alone, actually. He tended to only fight those he considered worthy of his attention, you see, or too powerful for anyone else to defeat, and naturally, I did not question his authority. I never doubted his skills for a second and had no idea what was to come...’ He frowned at his hands, apparently lost in thought for a moment.

Draco’s mother squeezed her husband’s hand. ‘There was nothing you could do, my love. You have got to stop beating yourself up over this.’

Father nodded. ‘You are right, of course, but you know me, my lady.’

‘I do know you, darling,’ Draco’s mother agreed with a smirk.

‘Everything changed so fast, Draco, you cannot imagine. One minute, we were celebrating the extraordinary defeat of Benjy Fenwick; the next we were running for our lives from those blasted Moody and Shacklebolt. They nearly got me too, rem–’

‘Oh, I remember,’ Draco’s mother said darkly.

‘Took a bit out of my calf.’ Draco’s father rubbed his leg with a distracted frown, muttering, ‘Still a nasty scar… Good thing we had Severus around, you know.’

‘We owe that boy a lot,’ Mother agreed.

Draco wanted to beg them to get to the point. He was going mad with impatience.

‘Anyway,’ his father lazily continued, ‘the Dark Lord’s lone task did not go as planned, as you well know from the history books. We went to bed without a worry and woke up to Aurors banging at the gate. Our trusted friends had turned on us the second the Dark Lord vanished, and us Malfoys were left to pick up the pieces.’

‘We picked them up as graciously as we could,’ said Draco’s mother with her head high.

Father copied the stance. ‘Absolutely no denying that, my heartbeat.’

‘But?’ Draco urged them on.

‘The way we see it – but many of our friends do not agree – there was no point in remaining loyal to a dead man. We did not believe in his immortality _and_ we had a baby to care for. So we did what we had to. We told the world that we did not voluntarily follow the Dark Lord; that we were under the influence of a spell and that he had _forced_ us to do the things we did. We betrayed him.’

‘That is ridiculous,' Draco snarled. 'Everyone did that. What would he think you would do? Land yourself in Azkaban?’

'Do not take that tone about the Dark Lord,' his father chided.

‘We do not think he cares about our reasons,’ said Draco's mother. ‘He would rather have us in Azkaban than to have betrayed him.’

‘And what is more,’ his father continued, ‘last year, I executed his plan to open the Chamber of Secrets unauthorized. I was supposed to only do that when he ordered me to, but the Ministry was raiding our house for dark artefacts and we had to get rid of it somehow. So we planted it on the Weasley girl. The Dark Lord trusted only me with it, and I – I allowed your friend Potter to destroy it.’ Draco’s father clenched his fists and jaws, gritting out, ‘This will make the Dark Lord very angry with us.’

It took Draco a while to let this information sink in. Draco’s father had opened the Chamber of Secrets. Harry’d done something that would make the Dark Lord very angry with Draco's parents.

Draco wondered why his father never told him anything about it. If he’d known about his father's plan during second year, it would have been way cooler. He could have helped. This explained why Father had been so furious at Potter.

‘And that, Draconius, is why we got a fright tonight. Seeing the Dark Mark in the sky reinforced our concern… First my tattoo came back to life and now this –’ Father took a breath ‘– You see, we fear the Dark Lord has returned.’

Draco’s mouth fell open.

‘We want you to at least be prepared for the possibility,’ said his mother.

‘But he is dead,’ said Draco. ‘Harry Potter killed him. Three times.’

‘Everyone always said he found a way to be immortal,’ said his father.

‘Some people never lost faith that he would come back,’ said his mother. ‘Aunty Bel certainly never did.’

‘And when he comes back,’ said Father, ‘he might not be so pleased with us. He might give us a – er – tricky time. We did not stay loyal to him and I made him lose something very important.’

‘ _And_ there is another reason why we are not thrilled about his return, right, darling?’ said Draco’s mother in a clipped tone.

‘Oh, yes,’ his father agreed. ‘The last reason we are worried about the Dark Lord’s return, Draco, is the most important one. During the Golden Days we had only ourselves to care for, but receiving the miraculous gift of a fragile, new life changed us.’ Father grabbed Draco’s chin. ‘ _You_ changed us, Dragon-child. We stopped caring as much as we did about the state of the world. We still want it to change, but not at all costs…’

Mother took Draco’s hand. ‘To know that the Dark Lord will have power over you frightens us to no end.’

Draco felt a little cold all of a sudden. He’d never seen his parents scared about anything. 

‘We will get through this,’ his mother promised.

‘I will not allow you or your mother to get anywhere _near_ harm's way.’

‘At Hogwarts you will be perfectly safe,’ said his mother with a brave smile.

‘There is nothing to worry about, as long as you mind us. We are still Purebloods, we are still one of his most loyal followers –’

‘And we have Aunty Bel and Severus Snape to protect us. Together we stand strong.’

‘So do not worry, Draconius.’

‘You are perfectly safe.’

Draco let himself be comforted. He believed his parents, and not just because he wanted to. He’d seen them perform that spell just now. They had found him at the campsite and pulled him away in seconds. They had gotten him into the Quidditch Team and almost killed a hippogriff for him.

Draco would be perfectly safe.

. . .

At the Hogwarts Express back to school, Draco told Vincent and Gregory all about what happened at the campsite. What was way more interesting though, was the things he’d heard the Beauxbatons students talking about. Vincent said he listened in on his father talking about Durmstrang students coming to Hogwarts.

‘Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know,’ Draco told them. ‘He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore – the man’s such a Mudblood-lover – and Durmstrang doesn’t admit that sort of riffraff. But Mother didn’t like the idea of me going to school so far away. Father says Durmstrang takes a far more sensible line than Hogwarts about the Dark Arts. Durmstrang students actually learn them, not just the defence rubbish we do.’

Vincent and Gregory nodded. After seeing the things Gregory’s father could do, and seeing the magic Draco’s parents performed, Draco’s interest in the Dark Arts had only grown stronger. His father always told him that the Dark Arts were the most powerful form of Magic. Draco reckoned that if you’re bothering to learn Magic, then why not at least learn the most powerful form?

‘But how was the _game_?’ asked Gregory breathlessly. ‘I heard Krum did a backflip.’

Draco snorted, before starting off on a magnificently detailed account of the match. He had practiced this speech ever since he saw the match, and even while watching it. Vincent and Gregory were his favourite audience: they gasped at the right times, laughed easily and listened without any interruption.

‘Then he did something like this, look at me –’ Draco was standing up to re-enact the Bulgarians’ fifth goal, when he heard a hoarse, low voice coming from the compartment next to them.

‘Moran scored six times,’ Harry Potter said. ‘The third was amazing.’

Draco fell silent.

‘Did you see Krum do a kickflip?’ said Longbottom’s dumb voice.

‘Oh yeah, loads!’ Draco heard Weasley boast. ‘Look, Neville!’

Cutting his report short, Draco nudged his friends to follow him.

‘We saw him right up close, as well,’ said Ron. ‘We were in the Top Box –’

‘For the first and last time in your life, Weasley.’

Draco had slid open the compartment door, which Longbottom had left ajar. He took in the compartment; chaos reigned wherever the Weasleys went. As usual, Potter and Weasley had candy scattered on every surface, suitcases lying open on the couches, there was a live animal in a cage and –

‘How nice of you to join us, Draco,’ said Harry, but Draco hardly heard. ‘Weasley… what is that?’

A sleeve with mouldy lace cuff was dangling from a cage with a hyperactive owl in it, swaying with the motion of the train. Weasley made to stuff the robes out of sight, but Draco already seized the sleeve and pulled.

‘Look at this!’ he yelled in ecstasy, holding up Weasley’s robes and showing Crabbe and Goyle, ‘Weasley, you weren’t thinking of _wearing_ these, were you? I mean – they were very fashionable in about eighteen-ninety…’

‘Eat dung, Malfoy!’ said Weasley, the same colour as the dress robes, as he snatched them back out of Draco’s grip.

Draco and his friends had to hold on to each other from laughing. Wiping away tears of mirth, Draco breathed out and asked, ‘So… going to enter, Weasley? Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There’s money involved as well, you know… You’d be able to afford some decent robes if you won…’

‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Weasley.

‘Are you going to enter?’ Draco repeated slowly, suspecting that the Weasleys weren’t important enough to be in the know of whatever exciting thing was going to happen this year at Hogwarts.

And indeed, Weasley looked angry, but confused.

Draco let his eyes wander over to Harry, bracing himself to stay cool. ‘I suppose you will, Potter? You never miss a chance to show off, do you?’

Harry’s eyes started sparkling as if he was about to say something witty.

‘Either explain what you’re on about or go away, Draco,’ interrupted the Mudblood over the top of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.

A gleeful smile spread across Draco’s pale face. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know?’ he said delightedly. ‘Weasley, you’ve got a father _and_ brother at the Ministry and you don’t even know? My God, my father told me about it ages ago… heard it from Cornelius Fudge. But then, Father’s always associated with the top People at the Ministry… Maybe your father’s too junior to know about it, Weasley… They probably don’t talk about important stuff in front of him.’

Laughing once more, Draco beckoned to Vincent and Gregory, and the three of them disappeared.

Behind them, he heard the sliding compartment door slam shut so hard that the glass shattered. Draco shared a satisfied grin with his friends.

. . .

Before they knew it, the school year had started, and they got dragged down in the rut of things faster than you could say “mundane”. The only thing breaking the cycle of lessons and homework, were friends and memories of writing with Boys Who Lived.

‘Do you think he knows?’ Draco draped himself over Pansy’s lap.

She was painting her nails in one of the secluded alcoves along the Common Room window. 'Who knows what?'

'Potter,' Draco snarled, considering his next words carefully. 'About... my heart.'

Pansy snorted derisively. ‘I do not think about him at all.’

She stroked Draco’s face while blowing on her nail polish. If Draco could purr, he would.

‘You do, don’t lie… There is nothing else going on in your life.’

Painting the nails of her other hand, Pansy tried very hard not to smirk. ‘Alright, fine… I don’t think he knows. If he knows, he is even more of a jerk than I thought.’

Draco bolted upright. ‘You’re wrong, you know.’

She looked Draco straight in the eye. ‘He dropped you the first chance he got. Out of sight, out of mind, you were. He likes Ron Weasley better than you, and you know it. We all know it.’

Gasping, Draco clutched his heart. ‘Hey, could you watch where you put those knives.’

She just shrugged, carefully painting her nail.

Not wanting to hear her words couldn’t deny the fact that Draco knew they were true. He told himself he was okay with it, that he had known this was going to happen when he started writing with Harry Potter, and that he had been totally prepared to be dropped like a stone. Sometimes he even fooled himself well enough to put his many emotions in check for a while.

This was not one of those moments. The next day they had Care of Magical Creatures, a class they shared with Gryffindor.

‘I’m considering quitting school,’ he pondered. ‘My parents always preferred Beauxbatons or Durmstrang anyway.’

Pansy smirked. ‘Or… you could just slip some arsenic in his morning tea.’

Draco considered it, but scowled. ‘It will only turn that rotten ginger into a martyr.’

Pansy sighed. ‘I meant Potter’s tea, you oaf.’

Draco fell off the alcove. It took him a solid ten seconds to recover from shock.

‘Hey,’ said Pansy without looking up from her toe nails, ‘this might be a radical notion, but… why don’t you go up and talk to the guy? You talked all summer, why not now?’

Draco crossed his arms. ‘I told you, he doesn’t reply.’

‘In real life, dumbass. You are in the same building now, there’s no need for postcards.’

Draco looked away, muttering, ‘Well, he could come to me.’ 

‘That’s the spirit.’

‘Do mine,’ Draco ordered from his position on the floor, sticking out his hand so Pansy could paint his nails a sparkly deep purple.

He leant his head on her knee like a lapdog and closed his eyes.

‘Witches sisters, witches sisters,’ Pansy whispered. Chanting this meant they would be friends forever. Thus far it worked. 

. . .

The ever so honourable Gryffindors were all perfectly on time when the Slytherins swaggered up to Hagrid’s hut the next day. At once, Draco’s eyes were drawn to the messy black head standing between the bushy Mudblood and the ginger monkey. He looked away as soon as he caught himself doing it. Draco was cool, totally cool. Or he could try to be.

They arrived to several open wooden crates on the ground. ‘Eurgh!’ squealed Lavender Brown, jumping backward from one of them.

‘Eurgh’ just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts, as Hagrid called the nasty creatures inside. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small phut, it would be propelled forward several inches.

‘On’y jus’ hatched,’ said Hagrid proudly, ‘so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!’

‘And why would we want to raise them?’ Draco asked coldly.

Vincent and Gregory were chuckling appreciatively at his words, as were some of his other classmates. Noting the meekness of the laughter, Draco concluded that Pansy was late today.

Hagrid looked stumped at his question.

‘I mean, what do they do?’ asked Draco impatiently. ‘What is the point of them?’

Hagrid opened his mouth, apparently thinking hard, Draco could almost hear the gears in his mind screeching. Then he said roughly, ‘Tha’s next lesson, Draco. Yer jus’ feedin’ ‘em today.’

Draco looked round at Crabbe and Goyle to roll his eyes. He wished the man had been sacked last year, it would have saved everyone a lot of misery.

‘The females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies,’ Hagrid went on. ‘I think they might be ter suck blood.’

‘Well, I can certainly see why we’re trying to keep them alive,’ said Draco. ‘Who wouldn’t want pets that can burn, sting, and bite all at once?’

So far, so good, Draco reckoned as he realised he hadn’t even been thinking about The Boy Who Lived since class started. Maybe he should be grateful for those nasty creatures demanding all his attention. Maybe he actually could manage to go two hours in the presence of Harry Potter without even seeing him.

He was glad Harry mostly kept quiet during classes. If he hadn’t, Draco probably would’ve had to put his fingers in his ears to block him out. There was no way he could hear Harry say things _and_ ignore him.

. . .

Draco almost spat out his afternoon tea. ‘Oh Merlin, look at this,’ he jeered, showing Vincent and Gregory an article in the Evening Prophet about Weasley’s father.

It said he had been running after garbage bins.

‘Can you imagine that. Filthy scum...’

Next to the article was a photo of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in front of their “house”. It resembled a bunch of boxes stacked on top of each other by a half-witted giant. It appeared to come crashing down any second.

'Stupid Weasleys. Wait 'till he sees this,’ Draco sneered.

They took the newspaper with them that night for dinner. The Entrance Hall was packed with people queuing for dinner, but Draco kept craning his neck to look over the crowd. Plenty of red heads, but none of them the right one.

‘There,’ said Vincent, nudging Draco so he almost toppled over.

Draco shared a grin with his friends before shouting, ‘Weasley! Hey, Weasley!’

Weasley, Potter and Granger all turned as one, like a three headed monster.

‘What?’ said Weasley shortly.

‘Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!’ said Draco, brandishing the Daily Prophet and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the packed Entrance Hall could hear. ‘Listen to this!’

He started reading the article about Mr. Weasley, who had responded to a false emergency call made by their new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, Moody.

‘Arnold Weasley,’ he read aloud, and he looked up. ‘Imagine them not even getting his name right, Weasley. It’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?’

Everyone in the Entrance Hall was listening now. Draco straightened the paper with a flourish and read on.

‘Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a _tussle_ ,’ Draco could hardly contain his laughter, ‘with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of –’ Draco laughed ‘– a number of –’ He wiped away tears of laughter ‘ – highly aggressive dust bins!’

His friends were rolling on the floor laughing.

‘And there’s a picture, Weasley!’ Draco crowed, flipping the paper over and holding it up. ‘A picture of your parents outside their house – if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?’

Everyone was staring at Weasley, who seemed to be shaking with anger. It felt incredibly gratifying to Draco how easy it was to push the boy’s buttons.

Suddenly, Potter stepped in front of his Weasel. ‘Seriously, Draco, who hurt you?’ he said. ‘C’mon, Ron…’

Before he could think, Draco had jumped up. ‘Oh yeah! You were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?’ he sneered. ‘So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?’

Harry stared at him, looking confused, but Weasley launched himself at Draco. As Crabbe and Goyle stepped forward, Potter and Granger grabbed the back of Weasley’s robes.

A double dose of anger had replaced Harry’s confusion. ‘You know _your_ mother, Malfoy?’ he roared. ‘That expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because _you_ were with her?’

Draco felt a furious heat rise to his face. ‘Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.’

‘Then for once keep your fat mouth shut,’ said Harry, looking daggers.

As he turned away, a white hot feeling of frustration surged through Draco – and before he could think, he had fired a jinx at The Boy Who Abandoned Draco Malfoy To Be With A Bleeding Weasley.

BANG!

Several people screamed, and Draco flinched when his jinx scraped Harry’s face. He wanted to bolt, but couldn’t drag his eyes away.

Slowly, Harry turned around. The look on his face made the floor seem to crumble underneath Draco’s feet. The boy looked utterly betrayed.

There was a second loud BANG and immediately a wild feeling of curtailment boiled under Draco’s skin. Panicking, he noticed his body shrinking quickly. Within seconds, he was on all fours, on the tiles of the Entrance Hall, looking at the points of people’s shoes. Terrified ,he tried to look at himself, but the only thing he saw was fur. FUR!

There was not time to even process this, as a roar echoed through the Entrance Hall. ‘OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!’

Professor Moody limped down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it was pointing right at Draco, shivering on the stone-flagged floor.

Draco looked up at his friends in helpless terror, but only saw his own fright and revolt mirrored on their faces.

Moody started to limp toward Draco, who gave a terrified squeak and took off, streaking toward the dungeons.

‘I don’t think so!’ roared the professor.

Draco felt himself being lifted from the floor. Screaming in fear, his weird little limbs tried to clutch onto something, anything, but found only air. He had no control, finding himself flying through the Entrance Hall like a puppet on a string. When the spell broke, it left Draco to fall from ten feet high and land with a smack to the floor, only to be lifted into the air once more before he could even breathe.

‘NO!’ Someone screamed. ‘Stop!’ The voice broke. Harry’s voice, Draco realised through a haze of panic.

Being bounced to the hard stone floor and back up in the air again, Draco heard himself squeal in terror, all the while still trying helplessly to regain some control.

‘I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,’ growled Moody. ‘Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do…’

‘Turn him back!’

Every inch of Draco’s body hurt. His skin bruised, his bones snapped, his head hit the floor with a terrifying blow.

‘There’s no need for this!’ Potter bellowed. ‘Turn him back!’

‘Never – do – that – again –’ said Moody, speaking each word as Draco hit the stone floor and bounced upward again.

With each drop, Draco was convinced he’d die.

‘EXPELLIARMUS!’

Draco fell to the floor once more, but this time he was allowed to remain there. For a few seconds, he closed his eyes to recover and regain consciousness.

‘Professor Moody!’ said a shocked voice.

Draco opened his eyes to see Professor McGonagall coming down the marble staircase with her arms full of books.

‘Hello, Professor McGonagall,’ said Moody calmly.

With Moody’s back turned, Draco saw his chance and ran in the direction of the Dungeons. People jumped away from him, but before he knew it, he was pulled back again by a magical force.

‘What – what are you doing?’ said Professor McGonagall.

‘Teaching,’ said Moody.

‘Teach– Moody, is that a student?’ shrieked Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms.

‘Yep,’ said Moody.

‘No!’ cried Professor McGonagall.

As quickly as he had shrunk, Draco was growing again. Upwards he shot, until he was his own size again. The fur retreated, then vanished completely.

Everyone in the Entrance Hall – the entire school – was staring at him, as he lay in a heap on the floor.

Quickly, he got to his feet, wincing, but trying to straighten his back anyway. It hurt every inch of his body and black spots appeared before his eyes.

‘Moody, we never use Transfiguration as a punishment!’ said Professor McGonagall. ‘Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?’

‘He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,’ said Moody, ‘but I thought a good sharp shock –’

‘We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!’

‘I’ll do that, then,’ said Moody, staring at Draco with great dislike.

Hardly able to see through tears of pain and humiliation, Draco forced himself to look up at Moody malevolently. ‘Wait until my father hears about this,’ he muttered. It was hard to make himself heard while trying to hide the fact that he lost a tooth.

‘Oh yeah?’ said Moody quietly, limping forward a few steps, the dull clunk of his wooden leg echoing around the hall.

Draco refused to show fear and stood his ground.

‘Well, I know your father of old, boy… You tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son… you tell him that from me… Now, your Head of House’ll be Snape, will it?’

‘Yes,’ said Draco.

‘Another old friend,’ growled Moody. ‘I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape… Come on, you…’

As if Snape would choose Moody’s side on this, Draco thought, feeling a little better as he imagined Snape’s fury.

Professor Moody seized Draco’s upper arm – pain seared through Draco’s body – and marched him off toward the dungeons.

As soon as they were out of sight from the people in the Entrance Hall, Draco allowed himself to pass out.

. . .

When he woke up, he was in his own bed, surrounded by his three friends and Professor Snape. His head was throbbing, and so were most parts of his body. His eyes felt heavy; opening them took more effort than he thought was possible.

Snape was chanting a spell while slowly going over Draco’s body with his wand.

Judging from Crabbe and Goyle’s faces, Draco would not have been surprised to find out Moody got beaten to death the next morning. He hoped so.

Pansy shrieked when she saw him opening his eyes, but Snape put up his hand when she wanted to hug Draco. She looked like it physically pained her to restrain herself.

They were all awfully quiet. No shouting or crying from Pansy, no grunting and grumbling from Vincent and Gregory, no reprimanding snarls from Snape – it had to be really bad.

Draco felt incredibly tired, falling in and out of sleep every other second. 

Snape’s wand reached Draco’s toes and with a last intricate wave he put it down on the nightstand, next to Harry and Draco’s postcard, a basket of fruit from the house elves, and a little bottle, which Snape picked up now. He put a hand under Draco’s neck. ‘Drink.’

It tasted heavily of candy cotton, probably to unsuccessfully mask the foul taste underneath it. Draco thought he deserved a darn applause for drinking it all.

Within seconds he drifted off into a deep, deep sleep.

. . .

When he woke up, Pansy was wrapped around him. Draco’s enormous yawn woke her up too.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked before even blinking. ‘Snape said you had 28 fractures, a concussion and a cracked skull. Was it very scary? Did you dream about it? I did. You look very bad, Draconius. Did you have near-death experience? Almost all of your body was black and blue yesterday; you had bruises that were literally black. Bruises as big as my hand. I really thought you would die.’

‘Malfoys do not die,’ Draco breathed with effort. ‘We pass on.’

She didn’t even crack him a smile. ‘”Nobody dies of bruises”, said Snape, but you know my opinion on _him_.’

Draco knew.

Pansy dropped her head on his chest. ‘I hate people. I hate them so much. I hate everyone in this entire school. Every single one of them. Name one. I hate them.’

Draco had trouble breathing, but he had no trouble listening. ‘Tell me.’

‘I hate Weasley for being so uptight and overreacting; blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I hate all the Weasleys for being so incredibly bad at life: for owning such a revolting home and being poor and then being bitter about it, as if they didn’t simply choose to live like that. You don’t have to get a child every year; you don’t have to keep the same sucky job; you don’t have to be a stay-at-home mom. It’s infuriating.’ She growled and went on: ‘I hate Potter for hurting you all the time. I hate everyone who says I’m in love with you, only because I cried so much and stayed here for almost twenty-four hours. I hate Dumbledore for allowing Moody to keep teaching here after what he did to you. I hate Snape and your parents for being too scared to get him fired or to protest at least. They were down to kill for a single cut, but 28 fractures are not enough to fire Moody?’ She sighed like she came up for air. ‘Do _you_ think I’m in love with you?’

‘No,’ he snarled.

Her tiny body felt like a ton of bricks on his painful skin. Still, it was nice.

‘I might be,’ she whispered.

He tried to look at her, but it hurt too much.

‘I’m always thinking about you. When you’re hurt, I’m hurt. I _hate_ Potter, absolutely hate him, even before I had a proper reason.’

Draco did not know what to say to that.

Pansy sighed. ‘But it feels weird to think about kissing you. I would prefer not to. Maybe I’m broken.’

Draco laughed. It hurt. He felt around for Pansy’s hand. ‘You’re the least broken person I know, Pansington. Everyone else sucks.’

‘Would it be okay?’ she asked softly. ‘If I was in love with you?’

Draco took a painful breath. ‘Knock yourself out… I’m not into you though.’

‘Oh.’ She sat up. ‘See? I don’t mind!’

‘Ssh…’ Her shrieking voice resounded in his hurting head.

‘I don’t think I’m in love with you,’ she whispered.

‘Stupid girl… You let the bastards mess with your head.’

She sighed. ‘Merlin, I hate people.’

For a long time, they were quiet.

‘Except…’ Pansy’s voice trailed off.

Recognizing a secret when he heard one, Draco’s ears pricked up. ‘Except?’ 

‘I… I saw a girl in the library, a bloody Ravenclaw, but I –’ Pansy played with the button on Draco’s shirt. ‘She looked like there was never a single bad thought in her head, ever. Do you think that’s possible?’

‘Boring,’ uttered Draco, and Pansy fell silent. He wanted to rip out his tongue: just as she was about to tell her a secret, he found it necessary to scoff at her!

‘She said she liked my nose.’ Pansy’s voice sounded far away, as if her mind was elsewhere. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘I like your nose too.’

‘No, you think it looks funny. This girl just liked it.’

Draco couldn’t wrap his head around it. This girl saw Pansy in the library and told her she liked her nose? ‘Tell me everything.’

Pansy rolled on her back to look at the ceiling, like Draco.

‘I’d never seen her before,’ she said. ‘I found her at the Herbology section in the library. She wasn’t wearing any shoes – and when she saw me looking, she smiled. Just… randomly smiled. She looked somehow… hazy, as if she didn’t belong… here – in this world. Do you think she’s half… something?’

‘I bet her other half is something too,’ Draco couldn’t help but jeer, even though it drained all energy from his body and hurt every inch of his chest.

Pansy straight-up ignored it. ‘I think she’s part Fae; her hair was long and I swear, it looked literally golden –’

Sounded to Draco like someone had a crush. He knew better than to tell her though. He could still distinctly remember the last time someone tried to kill him, as if it were yesterday. Oh right; it was yesterday.

‘I asked her why she smiled –’

‘As one does,’ Draco teased. He stopped laughing when a jet of pain shot through his body.

‘ – And that’s when she said she liked my nose. I thought she was laughing at me, but then she said –’ Draco could hear the smile in his friend’s voice, ‘ – she thought it looks like a _daisy_. “An absolute daisy,” she said.’

Draco started laughing, even the pain couldn’t stop him this time. ‘A – a nose like a d-daisy? How?’

‘I have no idea…’ Pansy sounded utterly mystified.

Draco desperately wanted to see this Fae-girl who had befuddled his friend, who went about smiling randomly at people and compared human features to vegetation. 

‘What time is it?’ he demanded, trying to heave himself upright. ‘Twenty-four hours, you said?’

‘Snape said you could wake up after twelve hours, so I skipped classes to stay with you. It was nice, I could catch up on my sleep and I read your silly vampire books.’

‘Not silly,’ grumbled Draco.

It was a ordeal to get up. His bones seemed to be healed and he didn’t spot any bruises, but he felt sore anyway. Sore and tired. His muscles ached as if he’d been exercising for hours on end.

At last he was sitting up, and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

‘Draconius Malfonius, what do we think we are doing?’

He had to catch his breath. ‘Did Potter –’

‘No!’ snapped Pansy. ‘They all think you’re perfectly fine after what Moody did to you. Scumbags, the lot of them!’

‘Ssh… Potter saved me, you know. Did you see him? I bet he looked awfully impressive.’

Pansy made a disgruntled sound. It meant yes.

Draco squealed a bit, then took another breath. ‘Did I miss dinner?’

‘I can bring you dinner, darling.’

‘I’m fine, Parky. Malf–’ gasping for air, he clutched his ribs ‘ – ohh… Malfoys bounce back… Help me stand.’ He wanted to see Potter, show him he was strong and resilient and perfectly fine. ‘And point out the Fae.’

‘Never. You’ll ruin her.’

Draco laughed. No doubt he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just found out about the concept of Britpicking. I'm Dutch so I can imagine making mistakes in this. If you are willing to correct them for me I'd be very thankful! You can reach out to me on [ one of my accounts ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontthrowsticksatme/profile).  
> On that note, if any of you want to betaread or point out whatever in my posted chapters, you can also reach out to me and I'd be very thankful!!


	5. The Yule ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 2 of 3 of Goblet of Fire.
> 
> Like I said in the previous chapter note: I added some ghosts to Malfoy Manor. You can find all scenes about them by doing a search of the word 'ghost' in chapter one, two and four. The ghosts are meant to make a return in later chapters.  
> (My favourite one is Geralt, even though his role is small so far. In my head he's a cross between Geralt of Rivia and Gerard Way in his black parade ensemble, although that’s probably historically incorrect.)

People were not as eager to forget about what Moody had done as Draco was. For days, it was all everyone talked about.

The whole incident did point out who Draco’s worst enemies were at school. The Slytherins kept mostly quiet about it, although Marcus Flint liked to “joke” how Draco should hold onto his ferret-qualities so he could sniff out the Snitch, or if he could ask Moody to change him again for their next match so he’d be more aerodynamic on a broom. 

‘You know, he could turn _you_ into an erumpent and it would still be an improvement,’ Draco snarled back, but Flint would just keep laughing at him like Draco was the pathetic one.

Pansy called him a ‘sad little man,’ but Draco wondered what it would make him if even the sad little men laughed at him. 

At their next Care of Magical Creatures lessons, they discovered that the Blast-Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace, given that nobody had yet discovered what they ate. Hagrid was delighted, and as part of their ‘project,’ suggested that they come down to his hut on alternate evenings to observe the Skrewts and make notes on their extraordinary behaviour.

‘I will not,’ said Draco flatly when Hagrid had proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack. ‘I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks.’

Hagrid’s smile faded off his face. ‘Yeh’ll do wha’ yer told,’ he growled, ‘or I’ll be takin’ a leaf out ta Professor Moody’s book… I hear yeh made a good ferret, Draco.’

Draco felt the blood rush to his face as the Gryffindors roared with laughter. He shot them a hateful look – and noticed that The Boy Who Lived was not laughing along. With his hands in his pockets, Harry J. Potter shuffled away from his jeering friends.

The incident didn’t only point out his true enemies, but also, it turned out, his true allies. Draco was almost – almost – thankful for their deranged new Professor. 

. . .

At last they found out exactly what Draco’s parents had been talking about with those important Ministry Friends. There was going to be a Tri-Wizard Tournament: a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry: Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion would be selected to represent each school, and the three champions would compete in three Magical tasks. Only students who were of age – seventeen years or older – would be allowed to put forward their names for consideration.

In October, the heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrived with their short-listed contenders – and among the contenders for Durmstrang was none other than Viktor Krum. Draco’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the famous Quidditch player up close.

‘They’re coming over here!’ hissed Pansy, when the exchange students entered the Great Hall for their first dinner together.

Draco desperately straightened his back and tried to act cool. It was very difficult with his heart racing out of his chest and his hands trembling.

He didn’t dare look at the group of Durmstrang students that settled themselves at the Slytherin table, afraid he’d faint or something. Then he saw Pansy’s eyes grow big as saucers.

Gingerly, he glanced to his left, catching a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eye brows. Settling himself at the empty seat besides Vincent, was Viktor Krum.

Draco wanted to scream, crow, howl at the moon! Instead, he kept his cool and casually leaned over to introduce himself, trying to think of something – anything – he could say. What did one say to a famous Quidditch player?! What would he say to an average person? Thank Merlin he had been introduced to celebrities since he could talk; the proper etiquette was ingrained in him, giving him something to fall back on.

‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘I’m Draco Malfoy. What do you think of Hogwarts so far?’

‘Very small,’ said Krum, scowling.

Draco, Vincent and Gregory exchanged proud looks. Sitting next to Viktor Krum felt like a personal achievement.

. . .

When they entered the candlelit Great Hall on the night the Champions were chosen, the Goblet of Fire was standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at the teachers’ table – and Viktor Krum was sitting with the Slytherins again. Draco and his friends proudly joined the Durmstrang students.

‘I hope it won’t pick Marcus Flint,’ grumbled Pansy, settling herself next to Daphne and Tracey, opposite Draco, Crabbe and Goyle. ‘Can’t stand the guy.’

‘I hope it does and he’s taken out in round one,’ said Daphne.

‘Oh, I hope it’s Adrian,’ sighed Tracey Davis with a dreamy smile. ‘He’s _fine_.’

‘Did you know the Head Girl might have entered her name?’ said Pansy. ‘I don’t know her, but they’re saying she makes a good chance.’

Tracey gasped. ‘You don’t know Mary?!’

‘She would be amazing,’ said Daphne.

‘I heard she could Apparate when she was twelve,’ said Millicent Bulstrode soflty.

Draco looked up in surprise, because that girl hardly ever spoke.

‘I heard she invented a spell to counter Fiendfyre,’ Imogen Stratton one-upped Bulstrode’s statement.

Tracey shook her head, waving a spoon. ‘No, she can walk through it. I’ve seen her do it, actually.’

‘Yeah, Mary does a heck of an Impervius,’ said Daphne knowingly.

‘Well, _I’ve_ seen her turn a first-year into a dragon,’ Imogen tried again.

‘A dragon? Really?’ said Pansy.

Tracey nodded excitedly. ‘It’s true. First she turned the girl into a dragon and then she put the whole thing in a teapot.’

‘No way,’ said Pansy.

‘Really, it’s true,’ said Daphne. ‘She put the lid on like she was about to ask us if we like Darjeeling.’

‘The whole dragon,’ Tracey emphasized, ‘nose to tail, all in Mary’s tea pot.’

The girls all nodded now, but Pansy frowned in bewilderment. ‘How?’

The girls shrugged.

‘Well, what can we say?’ said Tracey, sipping her pumpkin juice. ‘Mary is not someone to play around with.’

Clearly, Draco thought, looking across the Great Hall to see this Mary-person, but he didn’t notice anything special about her. Her long hair was tied in a braid that reached to her waist, but she wasn’t very tall or good-looking, and dressed in a faded Hogwarts uniform she looked exactly like everyone else in the castle.

‘They’re saying she’s the only person Dumbledore has ever feared,’ said Millicent.

Daphne braided her hair. ‘You know, I don’t believe she’s real.’

Before anyone could react to that, Blaise Zabini spoilt the fun, leaning back in his chair next to Tracey, ‘There’s a rumour going around that Warrington got up early and put his name in.’

‘Who cares,’ said Tracey. ‘He looks like a sloth.’

‘Thank you, Tracey,’ Pansy deadpanned, but Daphne gasped.

‘Merlin, Tracey! You can’t just call people sluts!’

And with that, Draco distanced himself from the conversation.

The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual. Like everyone else in the Hall – judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet – Draco simply wanted the plates to clear, and to hear who had been selected as Champions.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Dumbledore got to his feet.

‘Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,’ said Dumbledore. ‘I estimate that it requires one more minute.’ He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semi darkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes.

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red again. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it – the whole room gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had turned back to blue-white. One by one, in a strong, clear voice, he read the names of the champions for each school.

The champion for Durmstrang would be Viktor Krum – ‘ _Quelle surprise_ ,’ Draco drawled – and the champion for Beauxbatons was someone named Fleur Delacour. The last one to be chosen – and the one Draco and his friends were most excited about – was the Hogwarts Champion.

Marcus Flint shut his eyes and crossed his fingers. Pansy glared murderously in his direction, whispering something no doubt malevolent to Daphne, who sniggered.

The Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

‘The Hogwarts champion,’ he called, ‘is Cedric Diggory!’

Every single Hufflepuff jumped to his or her feet, screaming and stamping, as Cedric made his way past them, grinning broadly.

The Slytherin table was shrouded in a baffled silence. Blaise Zabini, lifting his eyebrows, finally put into words what everyone else was thinking.

‘A _Hufflepuff_?’ It sounded more surprised than anything.

Draco glanced at Flint. ‘How embarrassing.’

They all shot sympathetic looks at Marcus, whose face was an extraordinary shade of purple. He was, after all, defeated by a Hufflepuff. Draco wondered if one could ever recover from such a level of public humiliation.

‘What are we thinking, girls?’ drawled Pansy, leaning back in her chair.

‘He _is_ easy on the eyes,’ said Daphne.

Tracey pouted. ‘He’s no Adrian…’

‘You know, I am sitting right here,’ said Adrian from a bit further down the table. ‘And I didn’t even enter.’

Tracey smiled at him. ‘Let a girl dream, darling.’

Before they could process this blow to the Slytherin reputation, the tumult suddenly died down. The fire in the goblet had just turned red _again_. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot into the air, and borne upon it was a fourth piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed, Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore.

Then Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out –

‘Harry Potter.’

. . .

Draco hated this school.

‘There is absolutely no reason to follow the rules this strictly!’ Draco complained in a furious hiss to his friends during Herbology the next day.

‘Who cares, it’s just a game,’ said Crabbe.

‘It’s dangerous! The last time someone _died_!’

Smirking, Pansy leaned over from the table next to them. ‘I’m sure you’ll save him in time.’ 

‘If we had a Slytherin Headmaster,’ Draco grumbled, ignoring her, ‘someone sensible, instead of that ancient, nutjob Mudblood-lover, this would never have even been a problem. My father – ’

Professor Sprout cleared her throat looking at them. Apparently, everyone was listening to her except Draco and his friends.

‘Now that you are all familiar with Dragon’s Arum,’ said Sprout, ‘I have an announcement to make. The Yule Ball is approaching; a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to socialize with our foreign guests.’

Daphne and Tracey gasped. ‘A ball!’

‘Indeed,’ Sprout said dryly. ‘Now, this ball will be open only to fourth years and above, although you may invite a younger student if you wish.’

Vincent, Gregory and Draco shared uneasy looks.

‘Dress robes will be worn,’ Professor Sprout continued, ‘and the ball will start at eight o’clock on Christmas Day, finishing at midnight in the Great Hall.’

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders. Draco saw Pansy whispering furiously with her gang of Slytherin girls, no doubt discussing who they would like to go with. His stomach started to ache.

‘Are we supposed to invite someone?’ asked Gregory.

‘I guess we are,’ Draco replied miserably.

‘Who?’ asked Vincent.

‘I have no idea…’

. . .

Draco kept his eye on Harry during dinner that night. The Boy Who Lived looked as distracted as everyone else after hearing the news about the ball – but he did not look at Draco once. Instead, he kept eyeing the Ravenclaw table. Why?

Pansy nudged Draco. ‘Draconius, who’s that?’ she asked, pointing at another girl who walked up to the Ravenclaw table.

Draco snorted derisively. ‘Loony Lovegood. Weirdest person alive, probably.’

‘Loony?’

‘Well, Luna… But she is loony. Look at her ears.’

For whatever reason, the girl was wearing cherries as earrings.

‘Her father owns the Quibbler. My dad hates him with a passion. She believes in Nargles and Snorkacks.’ Draco shared a look with Pansy, and concluded: ‘Loony.’

Draco followed Harry’s eyes, drifting from the table, and saw Ravenclaw’s seeker, Cho Chang. His heart fell. Maybe Pansy was right when she’d said Draco was out of sight, out of mind with Potter.

. . .

There was no way Draco could forget about finding a date, or shove it to the back of his mind, as it was the main subject of discussion in the Slytherin Common Room for days on end. Some people had even already asked someone – Draco could only admire such adequacy.

Vincent, Gregory and Draco were playing Exploding Snap on the floor in a far corner of the Common Room, with Nimbostratus as their referee, while trying very hard not to think about dates, when Pansy fell down next to them.

‘So?’ she said. ‘Who are you going to ask?’

‘You, I suppose,’ Draco drawled.

‘Dream on, pretty boy.’ She leaned over to him. ‘I hope Blaise will ask me.’

Draco scoffed. ‘Dream on, pretty girl.’

‘Speaking of dreams…’ Pansy smirked maliciously, and pompously sat up straight. ‘Vinciento, Gregorius, I bet you ten dollars that Draco does not have the guts to ask Harry Potter for the ball.’

Vincent and Gregory guffawed stupidly. They seemed to agree.

‘Why bother?’ Draco felt absolutely miserable. ‘He hates me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Pansy.

‘You didn’t see how he looked at me that night of the World Cup… I suppose in his circle abusing Muggles is frowned-upon.’

Waving her hand, Pansy dismissed the concern, so Draco pulled out his last resort: ‘He’s into Cho Chang.’

Pansy wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘What?’

‘I saw him eyeing her all through dinner. It was revoltingly obvious.’

Pansy’s face fell. ‘Oh babe, I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Draco. ‘I had no illusions.’

‘Still, you should try. Cho’s into that Hufflepuff champion.’

Draco shot her a look. ‘Yeah right! As if Cho would ever choose some _Hufflepuff_ over _The Boy Who Lived_.’ Draco tapped his forehead. ‘You’re out of your mind, you are.’

‘That’s gonna be ten bucks for me.’ Pansy grinned.

‘Push off, Parky.’ No way would he let her win that easily. He turned to face her. ‘How about this: if I ask Potter and he says no, _you_ have to be my date.’

Grinning, Pansy defiantly raised her chin. ‘And if you’re too chicken to ask Potter, you will have to do all my homework for a month.’

Draco thought about it. It was a fair deal. ‘ _Tenu_.’

‘Deal.’

. . .

Care of Magical Creatures meant seeing the Gryffindors for the first time since the Goblet of Fire spat out Potter’s name.

‘Ah, look, boys, it’s the Champion,’ Draco said to Crabbe and Goyle the moment they arrived at Hagrid’s hut and Draco spotted Harry standing next to the Mudblood. ‘Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he’s going to be around much longer…’

No reaction.

‘Half the Triwizard champions have died,’ Draco loudly told his friends. ‘How long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter?’

Still nothing.

‘Ten minutes into the first task’s my bet.’

Finally, Harry’s head shot up – but the look on his face could only be described as devastated.

For a second, Draco’s stomach clenched. Then Potter seemed to grow three sizes. His hair rose up like an angry cat’s fur, and he lunged himself at Draco. He started pushing and pushing him as if Draco was the source of everything wrong in his life – and Draco had a hard time hiding a smile.

‘You _know_ I didn’t want this,’ Harry hissed. ‘Ron’s not talking to me because he thinks I planned this behind his back, and I do _not_ need that from _you_!’

Trying his best not to show his joy, Draco put his hands in the air and turned his back to the group. ‘I _know_ , Potter,’ he softly said. ‘I don’t _really_ want you to die.’

‘Well, _that’s_ awfully kind!’

Harry was as angry with him as he was on that night of the World Cup, Draco realized. He breathed in. ‘Look, you hate my guts and I hate yours, let’s – ’

Harry’s face fell; his shoulders dropped. ‘What?’

Draco blinked. ‘You – You can’t… Potter, you know about my parents.’

Harry grabbed Draco’s arm, and to his delight, Draco found himself being hauled behind Hagrid’s hut by The Boy Who Lived. To fulfil his fantasies even more, Harry Potter slammed him into the side of the cabin.

 _Now kiss_ , Draco begged – but alas.

While Draco stared at Harry’s mouth and relished in the sensation of Harry’s hand pushing against his chest, Potter was talking to him. Real words, in a solemn tone. Forcing his wild imagination to the back of his mind, Draco tried to focus on what was actually happening. It took an almighty effort.

‘I _wrote_ to you all summer, right?’ Harry hissed.

The butterflies in Draco’s belly were a lot harder to push away. Potter looked amazing. His hair was long and shiny and messy and he had _freckles_ – perfect little summer freckles. Draco want to plant little kisses on each one of them. He had grown too, not only in length but in his shoulders, his arms and his jaw.

‘Was that not you?!’ Harry pressed on.

Draco supressed a grin. ‘I told you, it was Tom Riddle.’

‘Dra!’

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Alright, calm down, Harry, you know perfectly well it was me – but that was _before_.’

Draco wondered if Harry forgot what happened after the Quidditch World Cup. Didn’t it change things? 

‘I don’t care,’ Harry said sincerely. ‘ _You_ didn’t do those things, right?’

Draco needed to let the words sink in. He put his hands in his pocket and leaned against the cabin wall – Harry Potter _didn’t care_ about what his parents had done? He didn’t care that Draco all but told Potter and his friends about the fun night his parents were having at the Muggles’ expense? 

Harry scowled. ‘Snape hates me because of my dad, I am not going to be like him. You're not your parents, Draco.’

‘Yeah,’ he scoffed, ‘right…’

Everyone with a pinch of sensibility knew Draco was _exactly_ his parents. He had his father’s dramatic streak, resentful nature and persistence. He had his mother’s stubbornness, her sense of humour and her intelligence. He had his father’s eyes and hair, and his mother’s physique and mouth. Every part of Draco Malfoy’s being could be pinpointed back to an ancestor. Draco Malfoy _was_ his bloodline.

Harry didn’t reply. His eyes started to wander. His lashes seemed to be stroking Draco’s skin.

Draco could stand like this and watch the boy forever. Harry was _such_ a joy to look at…

Unexpectedly, Potter’s eyes shot up and locked on Draco’s, hitting him like a bombshell – and Draco very nearly kissed him, right then and there. He barely managed to refrain, and only by furiously forcing himself to think about the Dark Lord returning, or the way Potter ruined his life: sending their House Elf away, snogging blood-traitors in secret chambers, ogling Ravenclaw Seekers, making him lose the Snitch…

Oh, how he longed to tell Harry everything his parents told him, and for Harry to repeat that it didn’t matter. They were not meant to be friends, Draco reminded himself, but Merlin, he wanted him so bad. 

After hours or seconds or months, Draco recovered some words from the eternal pit of bliss and agony he’d fallen into.

‘You know what I am,’ he uttered, ‘where I come from. And the _way_ I am.’

Harry slumped against the wall next to Draco. ‘I do, yeah.’

Draco held his breath.

‘You’re a real bitch.’

Draco snorted, and Harry smiled. He smiled and smiled and smiled, and the silliest little sprinkle of hope started to grow in Draco’s chest. No one had ever smiled at Draco like that… and he didn’t remember Harry ever smiling like that at anyone else – right? Did he smile like that at Cho Chang? Did people smile like that at their enemies?

He remembered Pansy’s theory about Harry’s hair and the Riddle of his Existence… And –

Oh, darn it all! Merlin knew Draco had his fair share of humiliation, he reckoned, so how much worse could one disgrace more or less be in the grand scheme of things? The question was burning inside him – It was only a few words – He had to, simply had to – Come on!

‘Do you want to go to the Yule ball with me?’

Harry jumped to his feet. Wide-eyed he stared at Draco, while Draco’s stomach tightened and twirled. He felt nervous to the point of feeling sick.

‘Yes,’ Harry whispered.

Draco Malfoy might as well have exploded.

‘Okay,’ Harry confirmed. ‘God yes. I mean: hell yeah. Yes, please.’ He jammed his jaws together and lowered his eyes.

Draco’s happiness came bubbling out in the form of laughter. He wanted to grab Potter’s cheeks and kiss his stupid face. Stiffly, he crossed his arms.

‘That’s affirmative then?’ he brought out.

Harry looked away. He was smiling again, and leaning back against the cabin wall, he bumped into Draco’s shoulder. It sent tiny bolts of lightning through Draco’s entire body.

Harry J. Potter… said _yes_.

To keep himself from grabbing his homeboy, Draco pushed his hands deep into his pockets, and he watched – He watched as, slowly but steadily, Harry’s face clouded over.

‘Second thoughts?’

Harry nervously ruffled through his hair, looking suddenly sick. ‘Yes.’

‘Yeah… People will talk.’

Snorting, Harry glanced at Draco, who scowled. ‘I hope you didn’t let Ron buy you one of those ghastly suits.’

It made Harry laugh. ‘Nah… I planned to… to wear that Christmas jumper you love so much, with–...’

‘With leggings?’

Harry burst out laughing. He quickly stifled it, but it was too late: Hagrid showed up and forced them to re-join the class.

Draco let out an exasperated sigh and slowly made his way back to the group. Warm fingers touched his hand. The sensation shot through Draco’s spine like hot water in the shower.

‘Maybe ask me again next week?’ Harry said softly.

Draco’s mind was a mess; he ran on autopilot. ‘Forget it, Potter… _If_ you’re still alive next week it’s on you to ask me.’

Harry beamed as they made their way back to the group.

‘The only solution,’ Hagrid was telling the class when Draco and Harry joined their friends again, ‘is to take them for a short walk.’

It distracted Draco at once. ‘Take this thing for a walk?’ he repeated in disgust, staring into one of the boxes. ‘And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?’

The rest of the hour, Draco focussed with all his might on the lesson, certain he would be either combusting, screaming or cartwheeling if he gave into his feelings even an inch.

When the class was over at long last, and The Boy Who Lived had strolled out of hearing distance, Draco grabbed Pansy’s arm and dragged her away from her friends.

‘You don’t have to go with me to the Yule ball.’

Pansy tried to pull loose from him. ‘Push off, Draco, I was talking to Tracey!’

‘He said yes.’

Pansy froze. For a second, she looked confused. Then, her chin dropped to the ground.

Draco had a terribly difficult time not to show his overflowing excitement. He shrugged, violently pressing down the corners of his mouth, and failing. ‘Potter’s going with me.’

‘You – ’ Pansy’s eyes were like saucers. ‘You asked him? Already?’

A giggle escaped Draco. He felt like screaming, but his classmates were too near.

Pansy grabbed his arm and for the second time that day, Draco found himself being hauled behind Hagrid’s cabin.

‘You’re saying you’re going to the Yule Ball with Harry James Potter? Who you’ve been pining for since you saw him?’

Draco nodded, his face contorted in a proud grin. Sighing heavily, he grabbed Pansy’s face and pushed their foreheads together. ‘He wants to go with _me_! Can you believe it?’

‘I can! I told you so!’

Pansy was grinning and laughing and shrieking, and then Draco crowed like a rooster at the top of his lungs. It was either that, or puking. ‘Oh Merlin, I am _so_ in love with him.’

Pansy flung her arms around his neck and slapped his head a few times. ‘I’m proud of you, stupid tosser. You actually did it.’

He pushed her away. ‘You cannot tell anyone! It is _my_ secret!’

Pansy looked annoyed and thrilled at the same time. ‘Ooh, but it is such a good secret!’

Draco almost kissed her. He felt way too much love for any human being to handle. It was bubbling over.

. . .

All through the rest of the week Draco couldn’t think of anything other than Harry Potter. He floated through life on thick, fluffy clouds. Yet even through his rose-coloured glasses he noticed a weird vibe surrounding The Boy Who Lived. Whenever Draco spotted him, the boy had his eyes on the ground and his shoulders pulled up high, as if trying to make himself invisible. All the other students – and not just Slytherins – were looking at him as though he were a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt. People seemed to think that Harry had been desperate to earn himself a bit more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his name.

‘Idiots,’ he growled at Vincent and Gregory as they watched Potter walk past in the East Wing, getting foul looks from nearly everyone. ‘If he did this on purpose, wouldn’t he be boasting about how he managed to do it? I would! As if he could have tricked Dumbledore. They’re always claiming he’s the most powerful wizard of our time, and now they all expect fourteen-year old Potter to have hoodwinked him? It’s ridiculous. They're all ridiculous, always have been.’

Later that night in the Slytherin Common Room, Draco was still fuming about it.

‘I don’t understand those people. How do they go from loving him to hating him within a day’s time? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It’s because he’s not the _real_ champion,’ Blaise Zabini tried to explain, wagging his pinched fingers like the strange Italian he was.

‘Real,’ Draco scoffed. ‘Let’s not get into the definition of real now, please. They just want an excuse to be angry. Common enemies conciliate butchers and vegetarians, my father says.’

Right as Draco remembered that, a _plan_ popped into his brain… Father also said: “Where emotions run high, profits run high.” There was always a way to financially exploit people’s hearts. He could abuse his fellow students’ anger – and then, after this was all over, he could treat Harry to something expensive.

For the next couple of days Draco locked himself up in his dorm and only came out to eat, go to classes or rush through some homework.

‘DRACONIUS! Stop it!’

‘No! _Merde_ , Pansy, get your cat out!’

Nimbostratus slammed his things from the bed to make room for himself. Pansy did absolutely nothing to stop him. ‘Look what I found! You have to teach me!’

She’d slammed the curtain around his bed away and dropped a book on his project. Draco tried to save what he could.

‘Look!’ she yelled while turning the pages and pressing them into Draco’s face until he snorted and pushed her away. It was a clear sign of how happy he was that he didn’t hex her.

Sniggering, she sat down next to him. ‘It’s so _romantic_.’

She was showing him the book she’d gifted Draco that summer: Magic For The Hopelessly Romantic. ‘Basiatio,’ the paragraph read. ‘Kiss charm.’

‘Oh,’ Draco said. ‘Interesting…’

For one evening, his project was forgotten. There were more important things in life than money, and being able to plant a kiss on someone from a safe distance was one of them.

. . .

When Potter arrived at Snape’s Dungeon a few weeks later, he found the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of them wearing a large badge on the front of their robes. They all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage: SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY – THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION!

‘Like them, Potter?’ said Draco loudly as Harry approached.

Every single Slytherin had bought one from him, earning Draco twenty Knuts profit each. He’d already made over two Galleons profit – on the first day of selling them.

The real test was Harry’s reaction. ‘And this isn’t all they do – look!’

He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green: POTTER STINKS!

The Slytherins howled with laughter – but better yet: Harry Potter laughed!

Each of the Slytherins pressed their badges now, until the message POTTER STINKS was shining brightly all around The Boy Who Lived, who started to blush. He stepped closer to Draco and touched the button to inspect it. ‘How did you even make those? How long did you spend on this?’

Draco poised himself like a true Malfoy and opened his mouth to tell Harry that a Wizard never revealed his secrets –

‘Oh very funny,’ Granger loudly interrupted, glaring at Pansy and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing louder than anyone, ‘really witty.’

‘Want one, Granger?’ offered Draco, holding out a badge. ‘I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see; don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.’

Harry stepped away. ‘Alright, mate, you ruined it.’

The word felt like a slap in Draco’s face. ‘How _dare_ you call me _mate_!’

Before he could recover, the Weasley appeared in front of them, pointing his wand at Draco. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

‘Ron!’ Granger warned.

Weasley didn’t do anything though. What was he waiting for, Draco thought, a herald?

‘Go on, then, Weasley,’ said Draco quietly, drawing out his own wand. ‘Moody’s not here to look after you now – do it, if you’ve got the guts.’

‘Dra, no – ’

At exactly the same time, both acted.

‘Furnunculus!’ Ron yelled.

‘Densaugeo!’ screamed Draco.

Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in mid-air, and ricocheted off at angles – Draco’s hit Granger in the face, and Ron’s hit Goyle.

Gregory bellowed and put his hands to his nose, where great ugly boils were springing up – Granger, whimpering in panic, was clutching her mouth.

Pansy hurried over to Goyle. She and Draco inspected the boils, but they seemed relatively harmless. Vincent offered him a Cauldron Cake, which Gregory gratefully accepted.

‘And what is all this noise about?’ said a soft, deadly voice.

Snape had arrived. The students clamoured to give their explanations. Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Draco and said, ‘Explain.’

‘Ron attacked me, sir –’

‘They attacked each other at the same time!’ Harry shouted.

‘ – and he hit Goyle – look – ’

Snape examined Gregory, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi.

‘Hospital wing, Goyle,’ Snape said calmly.

‘Malfoy got Hermione!’ Weasley said. ‘Look!’

He forced the Mudblood to show Snape her teeth – she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar.

Pansy and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles. Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, ‘I see no difference.’

Draco burst out laughing. Granger turned on her heel and ran up the corridor and out of sight. Both Potter and Weasley started shouting at Snape.

‘Let’s see,’ Snape said, in his silkiest voice. ‘Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it’ll be a week’s worth of detentions.’

Harry passed Snape, walked to the back of the Dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto a table. He looked ready to kill, Draco noticed fondly. Oh, how he would die to see Potter kill…

Draco and Vincent sat down near Snape’s desk at the front of the Dungeon. Leaning his chin on his arms, Draco peeked at his homeboy, who appeared to be imploding with fury at his lone table.

At some point his surprise had taken a wrong turn, Draco pondered, as he replayed the scene in the hallway in his mind. Luckily, he had another trick up his sleeve – thanks to Pansy. He took out his wand and aimed it as well as he could at the back of Potter’s neck. ‘

‘Basiatio,’ he whispered.

Harry jumped and whirled around. Blinking in confusion, he touched the back of his neck. Draco chuckled.

Harry spotted him. Smirking, Draco pressed his badge. ‘Potter stinks’ flashed once more across the room.

Harry blushed.

. . .

‘Draco, look!’ cried a choir of girls across the breakfast table.

Tracey held up a copy of Witch Weekly, with on the front page a life size picture of Harry Potter’s face.

Shrieking with laughter, Pansy yanked it out of Tracey’s hands and used a Severing Charm to cut off the cover. ‘Here, you can stick it on your wall!’

A heat rose to Draco’s cheeks as the entire table laughed. ‘Piss off, Pansy.’

Daphne grabbed the photo from her. ‘We need to frame it properly. He’s a Malfoy, after all.’

Tracey heaved a dreamy sigh, caressing Potter’s face. ‘Oh yes, a golden frame with emeralds… It would bring out his eyes…’

All three of the girls were scrutinizing the photo all of a sudden. ‘He does have gorgeous eyes,’ Daphne admitted.

‘But his nose looks all weird,’ said Pansy, sniggering as she drew a moustache on Potter’s upper lip.

Draco felt a strong need to yank the photo out of Pansy’s hands, but knew better than to actually do it.

‘Remember Rotilda’s theory about his hair?’ Tracey taunted and they all dropped the photo to get back to gossiping.

‘Romilda is getting wilder every day,’ said Daphne. ‘She’s planning to start a new school paper, did you know?’

‘On her own? She should ask Loony to help!’ Tracey jeered.

‘She says she wants to report on what’s happening in the castle,’ Daphne continued. ‘But me and Imogen think it’s just a way to stalk Potter.’

Draco braced himself.

‘Oh!’ Tracey and Pansy jeered in unison. ‘She should ask Draco!’

The gang of girls laughed like they’d never heard a better joke in their life. Draco glared at them.

‘This is gold!’ shrieked Pansy after a few minutes of blissful silence. ‘Listen! Listen!’ She waved to get everyone’s attention and cleared her throat. ‘”I suppose I get my strength from my parents, says Potter, _teary-eyed._ ‘I know they’d be very proud of me if they could see me now. Sometimes at night I still cry about them, I’m not ashamed to admit it. I know nothing will hurt me during the tournament, because they’re watching over me.”’

‘Aaaaw,’ said her gang of girls, while the other Slytherins at the table laughed thunderously.

‘Sssh, there’s more, there’s more!’ said Pansy. ‘“Harry has at last found _love_ at Hogwarts –”’

‘Oh, Malfoy, it’s about you!’

‘Shut _up_ , Daphne!’ screamed Pansy. ‘Listen! “His close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who, like Harry, is one of the top students in the school.”’

Draco was fuming. Looking across the Great Hall, he saw Harry and Granger sitting together, away from everyone else. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he snarled, but Pansy didn’t listen. To escape her piercing voice, Draco beckoned Crabbe and Goyle to get out of the Great Hall. They could eat their breakfast in peace in the courtyard.

That morning, Draco had trouble letting the words go. He tugged at Pansy’s coat on their way to class and muttered, ‘Do you think Granger is pretty?’

Pansy snorted derisively. ‘You have nothing to worry about, darling. If you’re a unicorn, she’s a flobberworm, if you get my drift. The rest isn’t true either, right? We all know Potter is far from a top student.’

‘Right…’

When the Slytherins passed Potter on their way to History of Magic, Marcus Flint shouted, ‘Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?’

When they crossed the Gryffindors on their way to Charms, Blaise Zabini slammed a fist in the inside of his elbow, snarling, ‘Since when have you been one of the top students in the school, Potter?’

‘Or is this a school you and _Longbottom_ set up together?’ added Daphne.

They almost peed themselves laughing. 

Walking backwards to watch Harry’s reaction, Draco spotted the boy wheeling around towards an innocent Cho Chang. ‘Yeah, that’s right!’ he roared, almost spitting fire, ‘I’ve just been crying my eyes out over my dead mum, and I’m off to do a bit more!’

Draco laughed, glowing with fondness. It was his favourite thing in the world to watch Harry Potter lose his temper. Especially if his victim was one of Draco’s rivals in the battle for Potter’s heart.

Someone who didn’t lose her temper was Granger. ‘Stunningly pretty? Her?’ Pansy had shrieked the first time they had come face-to-face with the Mudblood after Rita’s article had appeared. ‘What was she judging against – a chipmunk?’

They all had a great laugh, but Granger strutted past them like a prima donna of the gutter.

. . .

‘You have to eat, idiot,’ said Pansy on the morning of the first task.

Draco was far too busy staring at Potter, whose skin looked a little green. ‘How can I eat when Harry Potter is about to die?’ he snarled.

‘A little less drama wouldn’t be a bad look for you.’

‘A little less bothering me wouldn’t be for you.’

Pansy rolled her eyes and ate a big, full plate of breakfast. He felt like slamming her face into it – hard. Actually, he felt like flipping over the entire table. Everyone seemed so careless and happy, eating their breakfast, chatting, laughing. As if it was all perfectly normal what was about to happen. As if Harry J. Potter – Saviour of the Wizarding World and Draco Malfoy’s Yule Ball date – wasn’t left to be sacrificed in a game of life and death.

After breakfast Draco followed Vincent, Gregory and Pansy with her gang of girls to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. They kept walking so far around the perimeter of the forest that the castle and the lake were out of sight. There, around the edge of the forest, a large tent had been erected, and they could hear men shouting up ahead.

A deafening, ear splitting roar sounded and the girls let out high pitched screams. Vincent and Gregory moved closer to Draco, who grabbed his wand. For a split second he thought he was seeing bonfires, and men darting around them – and then his mouth fell open. ‘Dragons!’

Four fully grown, enormous, vicious-looking dragons were rearing onto their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting. Fifty feet above the ground, torrents of fire were shooting into the sky from their open, fanged mouths.

There was a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, snapping and snarling at the wizards on the ground; a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping with all its might; a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air; and a gigantic black one, more lizard-like than the others, which was nearest to them.

At least thirty wizards, seven or eight to each dragon, were attempting to control them, pulling at chains connected to heavy leather straps around their necks and legs.

Mesmerized, Draco looked up, high above him, and saw the eyes of the black dragon, with vertical pupils like a cat’s, bulging with either fear or rage, he couldn’t tell which… It was making a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream.

Vincent tugged at his elbow. Pansy and her friends were already climbing the stands further along the edge of the Forest. Crabbe, Goyle and Draco followed them.

'Dragons,' Draco mumbled, feeling numb with fright.

‘I heard,’ said a voice behind them – Blaise Zabini had suddenly popped up, ‘they can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet. One of the Weasleys said the Horntail can reach forty feet.’

‘Sure, why not?’ drawled Draco. ‘Let’s watch a fourteen year old try to kill a dragon.’

‘It’s illegal to kill them,’ said Zabini. ‘They’re an endangered species. I reckon they have to get past them or something. Maybe to save someone?’

‘Ooh, if that is all,’ he scoffed. ‘Did you hear that, Goyle? They simply have to get past four dragons – children’s matinée.’

‘There’s four dragons and four champions,’ Blaise calculated, the little arithmetician, ‘probably not a coincidence, right?’

Draco rolled his eyes at Crabbe and Goyle, and decided to ignore him, if only for his own well-being.

They sat down behind Pansy and her friends. The stands looked out over another enclosure, looking like an arena. As they watched the stands fill up with students – all talking excitedly, laughing, joking – the first dragon was lured in. Five of the dragon tamers carried a clutch of huge granite-grey eggs between them in a blanket. They laid them in a nest, next to an equally huge golden egg.

After a few minutes, a whistle blew and Ludo Bagman’s voice sounded through the enclosure, telling the crowd about the dragons and the task the champions had to carry out: steal the golden egg from the dragon’s nest.

‘That’s impossible!’ uttered Daphne Greengrass, while Bagman talked about the Swedish Short-Snout that Cedric Diggory had to get past.

Draco crossed his arms, scowling at the world for allowing this to happen.

The crowd screamed, yelled, gasped like a single, many-headed entity as Cedric walked into the arena and tried to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. He Transfigured a rock on the ground and turned it into a dog, trying to make the dragon go for the dog instead of him. Halfway through, the dragon changed its mind and decided it would rather have Cedric than the Labrador.

‘Clever move!’ said Bagman. ‘Pity it didn’t work!’

Draco couldn’t help but snigger at that. ‘Potter’s bound to be better than this clown,’ he snarled.

‘Oooh, narrow miss there, very narrow!’ yelled Bagman when Cedric only just got away from the dragon’s fire. ‘He’s taking risks, this one!’

‘That’s one word for it,’ said Blaise.

The crowd’s roar was deafening when Cedric captured the egg. He had to go to the Hospital Wing for his burns, though.

‘Fun fact: Cedric’s seventeen,’ Draco pointed out. ‘He’s almost graduated.’

His friends were on the edge of their seats to watch the game, pointedly ignoring him.

‘Oy, Zabini, our miracle calculator, what’s the difference between seventeen and fourteen?’

‘ _Fanculo_ , Malfoy.’

‘Three years!’ Draco shouted. ‘That’s eighteen percent older! And he _barely survived!’_

Pansy turned around in her chair. ‘Shut up, Draco, you’re ruining it for everyone.’

‘He’s got _burns,_ ’ Draco snarled. ‘He’s eighteen percent older than Potter and he’s got burns!’

‘Honey…’ Pansy seized his hands. ‘It’s a _Hufflepuff_.’

This was a comforting reminder. Draco breathed out.

‘One down, three to go!’ Bagman shouted. The whistle blew again. ‘Miss Delacour, if you please!’

Fleur tried a charm to put her Welsh Green-dragon in a trance. It fell asleep, but then it snored as she climbed in the nest to get the egg and a great jet of flame shot out of the dragon’s nose, making her skirt catch fire. She had to put it out with water from her wand.

‘Why,’ screamed Pansy, ‘ _why_ would you wear a _skirt_ to slay a dragon? Was she raised by my mother?!’

‘Yeah, she should take it off,’ said Blaise, grinning.

He received about seven slapping charms from the girls.

‘Tosser,’ he whispered, smirking at Crabbe and Goyle, while Blaise cowered and wailed.

With every burn the older students suffered, Draco got increasingly more nervous. They hadn’t been taught any of the magic the other Champions performed yet. How could Potter ever survive? He would be grilled in an instant, and there was no way the Professors could prevent something that happened in an instant.

For the third time, the whistle sounded. ‘And here comes Mr. Krum!’ cried Bagman, and Viktor Krum slouched into the enclosure.

‘You know, this all reminds me of the Roman Empire,’ Draco loudly remarked. ‘Bread and circuses, you see. Those were the days – I suppose that’s what Dumbledore thought.’

His friends still ignored him.

Krum was quite good, Draco had to admit: he hit his Chinese Fireball-dragon in the eye with a powerful spell.

‘Very daring!’ Bagman yelled, while the Chinese Fireball emitted a horrible, roaring shriek, and the crowd drew its collective breath.

The dragon went trampling around in agony and squashed half the real eggs.

‘That’s some nerve he’s showing! – And – Yes! He’s got the egg!’

Applause shattered the wintery air like breaking glass. Then the whistle – for the last time…

A soft whimper escaped Draco and he covered his eyes.

Pansy turned around to pat his knee. ‘He won’t die, Draconius. Not yet, I hope – my bet was halfway through the second task, so fingers crossed!’

Draco called her a very nasty word, then covered his eyes again.

When the last dragon got hauled into the enclosure, he heard Pansy gasp and Blaise going, ‘Ooh!’ as if he was in physical pain.

Draco peeked through his fingers.

The last dragon left was the Hungarian Horntail: the gigantic black dragon. As it was sweeping its tail in the direction of the crowd, Draco saw long, bronze-coloured spikes protruding along it every few inches.

Draco squealed in fright. ‘The others didn’t have spikes. They didn’t have spikes, right? Do they _want_ my Harry dead?’

Blaise shrugged like he deemed that plausible, which did not help Draco’s nausea. Meanwhile, Pansy whooped and hollered, apparently having the time of her life.

At the other end of the enclosure, a tiny figure appeared through the gap in the fence.

‘Oh, Harry…’ Draco pulled at his hair.

The dragon looked vicious as it crouched low over her clutch of eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon Potter. A monstrous, scaly, black lizard, thrashing her spiked tail, heaving yard-long gouge marks in the ground.

‘I can’t watch,’ yelped Draco, peeking through his fingers.

Potter raised his wand, shouting something.

‘What did he say?’ said Draco. ‘Did anyone hear?’

‘“Nasty radio”,’ said Pansy decidedly. ‘That’s what I heard.’

‘Why would he say that?’ wondered Daphne.

‘I think he said something to do with fire,’ said Blaise.

‘Don’t be daft,’ snarled Tracey. ‘You can’t fight a dragon with fire.’

They all agreed.

Draco patted Blaise’s knee, simpering, ‘It’s okay, Zabini, brains aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’

As a reaction, Zabini flicked his chin with the back of his hand, as if that gesture meant anything to Draco. It looked rude, so Draco scowled.

Still nothing happened in the arena.

‘It’s not working,’ Draco snapped. ‘Why’s he not trying it again?’

For seconds on end, Harry just stood there, while the Hungarian Horntail watched.

‘Stupid idiot,’ Draco cried, ‘try something else!’

‘He’s waiting!’ said someone.

When Harry turned suddenly, Draco jumped up –

Potter's Firebolt hurtled around the edge of the woods, soaring into the enclosure, and stopped dead in mid-air beside Potter, waiting for him to mount. Relief washed over Draco as Harry swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground. Draco made a great deal of noise; as did the rest of the crowd, seeing Harry exactly where he belonged, safely in the sky. He looked entirely confident.

He looked down at the clutch of eggs and Draco followed his gaze, spotting the golden egg gleaming against its cement-coloured fellows, residing between the dragon’s front legs.

Potter dived. The Horntail’s head followed him, and Harry pulled out of the dive just in time; a jet of fire had been released exactly where he would have been had he not swerved away – he made it look like he was simply avoiding a Bludger.

‘Great Scott, he can fly!’ yelled Bagman as the crowd shrieked and gasped.

‘Stating the obvious,’ snarled Draco.

‘Are you watching this, Mr. Krum?!’

Harry soared higher in a circle; the Horntail was still following his progress, its head revolving on its long neck. If Harry kept this up, it would be nicely dizzy – but he’d better not push it too long, or it would be breathing fire again.

Harry plummeted, just as the Horntail opened its mouth, but this time he was less lucky: he missed the flames, but the tail came whipping up to meet him instead, and as he swerved to the left, one of the long spikes grazed his shoulder, ripping his robes – and Draco shrieked, the sound drowning in the crowd’s gasps and screams.

The cut didn’t seem to be deep, as Potter zoomed around the back of the Horntail, who wasn’t eager to take off, she was too protective of her eggs. Though she writhed and twisted, furling and unfurling her wings and keeping those fearsome yellow eyes on Harry, she was afraid to move too far from them.

Potter began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make the dragon breathe fire to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient threat to ensure she kept her eyes on him.

Her head swayed this way and that, watching him out of those vertical pupils, her fangs bared.

He flew higher. The Horntail’s head rose with him, her neck now stretched to its fullest extent, still swaying, like a snake before its charmer.

Draco didn’t breathe. His fingers were pressing deep into the skin of his legs, but he didn’t even notice.

Harry rose a few more feet, and the dragon let out a roar of exasperation. He was like a fly to her, a fly she was longing to swat. Her tail thrashed again, but he was too high to reach now. She shot fire into the air, which he dodged. Her jaws opened wide…

‘Come on,’ Draco murmured anxiously, as Harry swerved tantalizingly above the dragon.

And then she reared, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last, wide enough to keep the Manor dry in a snow storm – and Harry dived, as Draco and the crowd screamed in excitement.

Before the dragon knew what he had done, or where he had disappeared to, Harry was speeding toward the ground, toward the eggs, now unprotected by her clawed front legs.

He had taken his hands off his Firebolt – he had seized the golden egg – and with a huge spurt of speed, he was off, he was soaring out over the stands, the golden egg safely under his uninjured arm.

‘He did it!’

The crowd was screaming and applauding as loudly as the Irish supporters at the World Cup.

‘Look at that!’ Bagman was yelling. ‘Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr. Potter!’

The dragon keepers rushed forward to subdue the Horntail, and Potter flew back over the stands, smoothly landing at the champion’s tent.

His throat hoarse from screaming, Draco had never felt so proud – and so relieved. Harry had gotten through the first task. He had survived – and he had been amazing.

. . .

That night, Draco couldn’t sit still. His mind kept wandering off to the dragons, only just outside the castle, while he was sitting in a chair, bent over their History of Magic homework. It didn’t feel right.

He got up. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ he let Crabbe and Goyle know. ‘And maybe go to the library after. You go on, I’ll be back before bed.’

Draco, in fact, did not go to take a shower, nor did he go to the library. Instead, he sneaked out of the castle, staying close to the forest’s edge to keep out of sight of anyone who might be looking out of the window. He hurried over to the dragon’s disclosure they’d walked past that afternoon. From afar he could see the glow of fire over the treetops, illuminating clouds of smoke.

He reached the fence without being caught and sighed a breath of relief – until he realised what he was looking at through the fence. He’d thought it had been too dark to see anything, but then he made out outlines of scales. He was only a few feet away from the Hungarian Horntail!

The spikes on its tail were larger than Draco was. The dragon had its back turned towards him and was lying perfectly still. It was probably fast asleep.

‘Diffindo,’ Draco muttered to make a cut in the fence large enough to let him sneak inside. On tiptoes he inched closer to the dragon and slowly reached out to touch its massive, black scales.

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

Draco jumped and almost shrieked. Rounding the side of the Horntail, was a man, only slightly taller than Draco, but instantly intimidating, largely due to his broad shoulders.

When he got closer and casted Lumos, Draco could see the guy was quite young, hardly over twenty. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscly, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it.

‘Like the dragons?’ the boy said.

Draco proudly straightened his back. ‘I was named after them.’

The boy grinned. ‘That’s awesome. I can only dream of that.’

A low rumble sounded from the dragon’s body. Draco felt his eyes grow to the size of saucers as he froze in fright. The gigantic tail of the Hungarian Horntail dragged gouge marks in the ground big enough for Draco to fall into.

‘Come on, let’s get you out. It’s not safe here for students,’ said the boy, holding out his arm to accompany Draco to the exit.

‘I want to see them,’ Draco demanded.

‘We’re not giving tours to eleven year olds. We’re packing up to leave, and we’re on a very tight schedule.’

‘I’m fourteen,’ Draco snarled. ‘I want to touch one.’

‘Come on,’ the boy insisted, Giving Draco a little push.

Pouting, Draco did as he was told. As he traipsed after the boy, he feasted his eyes on the dragon for as long as he could.

‘What’s it like to work with them?’ he asked.

‘It’s the best job in the world,’ said the guy. ‘My mum’s always worried and I have more burns than I could count, but it’s all worth it when a dragon trusts you enough to let you near… The other day one of the ladies actually came to get me. She was completely upset, kept nudging me with her head to get me to her young, who’d fallen into a crevice in the earth. She kept crying and trying to reach her baby, but her claws and snout didn’t fit in the crevice.’

Draco was listening with his mouth hanging open. ‘And then?’

‘Standard procedure: I called a rescue team. When we finally managed to haul her baby up, I got as many head bumps from the mother as she gave the baby.’ The man laughed so loudly, one of the dragons – the Chinese Fireball, Draco recalled – moved in its sleep. As Draco watched, he saw something glowing underneath the dragon’s skin. Fascinated, he inched closer to look –

A large hand grabbed Draco’s arm and he got yanked aside as a jet of fire shot from the dragon’s nostrils. He nearly escaped, feeling the heat graze his skin.

Draco was shaking on his legs, but the boy walked on, sniggering fondly. ‘She’s a snorer.’ He patted the dragon behind the ears, looking half in love with it. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’

Draco panted. ‘Can – Can I do that?’

The boy looked up as Draco reached out to touch the Fireball’s neck. He checked to see if the dragon was still sleeping and placed himself between its head and Draco. ‘Go on then.’

A hot swoop of excitement shot through Draco as his hand landed on the dragon’s scales. He expected them to feel warm, like hot water bottles, but they felt as cold as the chilly night air and the earth beneath his feet. The scales were solid and rough like slate.

‘Amazing,’ he whispered.

The boy smiled. ‘Yeah… I remember when I first touched a dragon.’

Draco petted the animal with both hands now. He could feel her breathing underneath his hands, and in an impulse he dropped his entire body against it, closing his eyes.

The boy was laughing at him now, but for once, Draco didn’t mind. It wasn’t a mean laugh anyway.

As he pushed himself to his feet again, he checked the guy out. ‘Can’t you be our Magical Creatures teacher?’ 

The boy snorted and started walking again. ‘Come on now, before someone spots you. You’re really not supposed to get so close.’

He didn’t seem anxious at all though. Draco wondered if people who worked with dragons even had the ability to feel anxious, ever. This one seemed as relaxed as if they were sauntering through a flowery meadow on a sunny day.

Draco kept close to his guide when they passed the Swedish Short-snout with only a few yards between them. When the dragon lazily opened one yellow eye, the guy’s hand closed around Draco’s wrist, his skin all calluses and blisters, and Draco narrowly repressed the urge to scream and bolt.

Nothing happened though, so the boy let Draco go again. ‘You should see the Hebridean Black Dragon,’ he said. ‘It’s my favourite. It can grow up to be thirty feet long.’

‘Thirty feet? Where can I see one?’

The guy snorted. ‘Try befriending the MacFusty clan. They care for one in the Scottish Highlands, not too far away from here actually. Most unwelcoming lot ever, though, so good luck with that.’

‘Oh, I can arrange that,’ said Draco smugly. He knew what to ask for Christmas!

‘There you go,’ said the boy when they reached the entrance of the dragon enclosure. ‘And don’t come back.’ He threateningly lifted a finger at Draco, but his eyes gleamed.

‘Well, I can’t wait till I’m off age.’ Draco shook the guy’s hand. ‘I’ll buy all dragons in the world, you see, and then I’ll run this place.’

The guy let out a booming laugh and slapped Draco on the shoulder. ‘See you in a few years than, mate. Bye!’

As he sauntered away, Draco heard him softly sing to himself, ‘ _Dragons are better than people…_ ’

. . .

‘Malfoy?’

Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis appeared beside Draco, Vincent and Gregory in the library.

‘What?’ Draco drawled. ‘Want me to get you Potter’s autograph?’ He smirked at Crabbe & Goyle.

The girls snorted. ‘You gonna get it by lurking?’

Draco scowled at them. ‘Shut up. I’m busy.’

Potter and Granger were feverishly reading again. It probably had to do with the Tournament. Harry kept running his hands through his hair, making it curl and twirl this way and that.

He looked worried, Draco noted. His nose almost touched the pages while he put his hands around his face to block the world out or laid his mighty arms on top of his head as if to force himself to stay put.

‘Is Pansy alright?’ Tracey interrupted his scrutiny.

Draco looked up. ‘Huh? Why?’

‘She’s not eating or laughing and most of the time we don’t know where she is.’

Draco shared a look with Crabbe and Goyle, and like one man they rose to find Pansy.

To someone who knew where to look, she wasn’t hard to find. There was a spot near the Quidditch Field that overlooked the grounds surrounding the castle. It reminded her of the porch at the Parkinson Property.

She wasn’t there.

The other option was the Boat House. She said the sloshing of the water calmed her, like it did in their dorm, but with the benefit of being left alone. When they rounded the corner to the mouldy, grey walls of the Boat House, they spotted a small figure on the dock.

‘There you are,’ Draco drawled, which just made her look away.

Draco liked the echoing and the cavernous feel of the Boat House. 

He kicked her. ‘Spit it out.’

‘Never.’

Draco and Gregory sat down on either side of her. Vincent leaned against the wall behind them and kept eyeing their surroundings as if there was some imminent threat. His mother always said he had anxiety issues, which Vincent didn’t like to discuss.

‘Can we guess?’ Draco suggested. ‘How many tries are we allowed?’

‘None.’

‘Well, did Zabini reject you?’ Draco started anyway, counting the first try on his fingers.

‘Did you eat raw dough?’ offered Gregory.

‘Or mussels,’ added Vincent; Draco held up two, then three fingers.

Pansy shook her head. ‘Go away. I’m fine.’

‘Zabini's a drag,’ said Draco. ‘The only thing going for him is his height and his bone structure. I’ve never heard him say anything exciting.’

‘I don’t give a rat’s arse about Blaise Zabini,’ said Pansy.

Draco frowned. ‘Is the family alright?’

‘Yes, don’t worry. I said I’m fine.’

‘You are not fine,’ Gregory stated.

‘Someone bullying you?’ asked Vincent. ‘We’ll beat them up.’

‘I know. Thanks, champ.’

Draco racked his brain. Then he remembered. ‘Oh man, is this about the Fae?’

Pansy flinched and looked away. She did not reply.

Draco looked around at Crabbe and Goyle. ‘Get her something to eat. Something warm.’

Happy to be able to do something they were experts on, the boys lumbered back to the castle. As soon as they were out of sight, Draco cut to the chase: ‘Are you in love with Fleur Delacour? She’s gone in a few weeks, so it’s really not a big deal.’

‘I’m not.’

‘She’s part Veela by the way, not part Fae. And _everyone_ is in love with her, nothing to be embarrassed about.’

‘I know. I said – ’

‘She won’t die in the Tournament, I’m sure. She was pretty awesome with the dragon – though not as awesome as my Fiery Four-Eyes,’ he hastened to add.

Pansy snorted, but in an unhappy way. ‘Stop talking, it’s not about her.’

Draco frowned. ‘Then who – ’

‘I already said I will never tell. Never.’

‘Oh, so dramatic… I’ll find out, you know. I am a Malfoy, remember?’

‘How can I forget…’

She kept looking away. It frustrated him. He had no time for these shenanigans, he wanted to go back and watch Harry read. So he put on the booming voice of his father: ‘Pansy Parkinson, I demand to know what you are sulking about!’

She crossed her arms.

‘Spit it out!’

‘No!’

‘NOW!’

‘NO!’

‘How dare you!’ His voice echoed around the Boat House. ‘Why not?!’

‘Because it’s stupid.’

‘Silly dung-brain girl, you are talking to someone who is in love with The Boy Who Lived, for Merlin’s sake, it can’t be any more stupid than that.’

He knew he hit bull’s eye when she looked aside at him and defiantly raised an eyebrow. ‘Wanna bet?’ The setting sun peeked into the Boat House, giving Pansy’s hair an orange glow. ‘I get a box of Cauldron Cakes,’ she said, ‘if it’s more stupid than being in love with Harry J. Potter.’

Easy deal, Draco reckoned. They shook on it.

Pansy cleared her throat. ‘I’m in love with Luna Lovegood.’

Draco howled with laughter. Pansy sighed. ‘You’re joking!’ Draco couldn’t stop cackling, it made his stomach ache. ‘It’s not possible! Loony? You can’t be serious!’

Pansy solemnly nodded, sighed and looked away.

Draco wiped away tears of mirth. ‘Oh, you were always weird,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a dozen boxes of Cauldron Cakes for this. Oh, I haven’t laughed so much in weeks… _La vache_ … Loony Lovegood. Wait till I tell – ’

Pansy’s wand jabbed into Draco’s throat. ‘Tell and you’re dead,’ she hissed with that look she reserved for people who took the last muffin during breakfast, only turned up to eleven.

Draco put his hands in the air. ‘Did you ask her to the ball?’ he jeered. He knew he shouldn’t gloat, especially not with a wand on his throat, but it was nice to finally not be the one with the worst problems.

Solemnly, she lowered her wand. ‘I could never. Mother will know… Everyone will know.’

‘Then who _are_ you going with?’

‘I’m not going. I hate people.’

Draco nodded. ‘To be fair,’ he said. ‘I’m not looking forward to it either. I can still cancel, then we could – ’

‘Shut up, you weak little wanker. I’m going home on the day of the Yule Ball; I bullied Primrose into coming over from France to fetch me. And _you_ , Mister Malfoy, are finally going to snog the love of your life. Don’t ruin this for us.’

‘Primrose is coming over?’

‘Yes, but only to pick me up. She promised to let me stay with her for Christmas without telling mum.’

Draco sulked. Why wasn’t he invited to stay in France with Pansy’s cool, famous sister for Christmas?

‘You do know she’s crazy, right? Loony Lovegood? Like genuinely wacko?’

‘Not more than you.’

He glared at her.

‘She’s bullied by everyone, every single day, and she doesn’t change one bit. That’s character, Draconius. We can only dream of such resilience.’

He had to admit she had a point.

‘There’s so much wrong with me,’ said Pansy gloomily.

‘Lies,’ Draco snarled. ‘Name _one_.’

‘I’m too loud. I go from screaming in excitement to screaming in anger, within minutes. Why am I like that? What’s wrong with me? Lavender Brown says I laugh too loud, mother says I walk too loud, McGonagall says I talk too loud.’

‘Those are all my favourite things about you! Otherwise I’d be the only one like that!’

She looked up with a faint smile and put her head on his shoulder.

‘What else?’ said Draco resolutely.

‘I’m confused all the time. I don’t know who I like. I thought it was you, but then it was Luna, and then I convinced myself it was Blaise, but it’s not. Sometimes I think I’m in love with everyone, and sometimes I think no one is even remotely good enough.’

He smirked. ‘Everyone?’

Pansy looked him dead in the eye. ‘ _Everyone_.’

‘Like who?’

‘Like… Anyone blonde. Anyone on the Quidditch team – ’

‘Including the Weasleys?’

‘Merlin, no! Even I have limits. Although…’

Draco huffed and braced himself.

‘Sometimes I think I… I might like… Ginny Weasley. Hell, sometimes I think I like Granger, for Merlin’s sake.’

‘ _La vache!_ You’ll be disowned!’

‘Tell me about it… I’m a terrible mess. I deserve to die.’

Draco’s eyebrows shot up and he burst out laughing. ‘I’ll say!’

She slapped his arm. ‘Shut up, Draco!’

‘You’re so dramatic.’

‘What if I like Tracey or Daphne?’ exclaimed Pansy desperately.

‘Then what?’ Draco scoffed. ‘As long as you don’t force your tongue down their throats or secretly sniff their nickers, who cares?’

She didn’t even crack a smile. ‘I’m jealous of you and Potter. I wish I could feel like that about someone. I wish someone felt that way about me.’

‘I’d choose you over Potter in a heartbeat.’

Only as he said it, did Draco realise it was true. He surprised himself. Before he could even process this, something terrifying happened: Pansy started crying.

‘Oh no,’ squealed Draco. ‘I didn’t mean it! Oh, help, what did I do? I take it back!’

Pansy sniffled. ‘Why are you so nice to me?’

‘Oh.’ Draco scratched his head. ‘Well, then you’re a real bitch, Pansy. Ugly, too, with a terrible sense of style. Crazy and loud and…’ He had to rack his brain for more. ‘Clingy. Terribly clingy.’

Laughing, she took his hand. ‘Stop.’ She inhaled like she snorted something up and ranted on. ‘I hate growing up. When we were little I could tell everyone I was marrying you, and a day later I’d marry Primrose and no one would think anything of it. Now I’m not even allowed to touch you without everyone applying labels… haphazardly.’

Draco shook his head. ‘Enough, young lady,’ He got to his feet and with a little bow, he held out his hand. ‘May I have this dance?’

Pansy grumbled, ‘You may…’

‘I need to practice,’ Draco bragged as he twirled his friend around, ‘for my dance with The Boy Who Lived, you see.’

Pansy smirked. ‘Then I hope for your sake that Potter knows the girls’ steps.’

Draco froze. ‘ _Fait chier!_ ’

The thought of girls- and boys-steps hadn’t even crossed his mind. Running his hands through his hair, he cursed some more.

‘Relax, dumbass,’ snarled Pansy. ‘I can teach you.’ With a theatrical swish she moved her hands, ‘ _Changez_!’

That’s what their old dancing teacher kept singing out, whenever they needed to change partners or when she suddenly switched songs or rhythms to keep them all on their toes.

Draco snorted. ‘Perfect… Then I can teach you the men’s steps – so you can ask Granger.’

Pansy abruptly let go off him, leaning one hand against the Boat House’s arched wall to violently fake throw up, while Draco laughed scathingly.

He put his hands up as if holding someone invisible, drawling, ‘Come on, brat, time’s Galleons.’

And so they danced.

‘When you’re with Primrose,’ said Draco, ‘could you perhaps… ask her about secret places in Hogwarts? Where one could, for instance… have some privacy?’

Pansy laughed with her head in her neck. ‘For you, I will. But only if I can tell her about your future husband.’

‘I didn’t make the Parkinson newsletter yet?’

Her eyes started to sparkle. ‘Do you remember that room she talked about with all the red curtains and the lounge chairs?’

Draco gasped, letting Pansy go in excitement. ‘I forgot about that! Why haven’t we found it yet? _That’s_ the one I need! You _have_ to ask her about it! I need it _now_.’

Pansy shrugged. ‘Fine, I’ll Floo her tonight.’

When it was starting to get dark outside the Boat House, Draco finally felt confident that he knew the steps. Pansy curtsied and he took another bow, then offered her his arm to escort the lady back to the castle.

Sauntering across the lawn, she grumbled, ‘Bet you two Galleons Crabbe and Goyle are eating my food.’

‘You’re on.’

When they arrived at the castle, Draco was rewarded with Potter loafing around in the Great Hall with his dumb friends.

‘Hermione,’ they overheard Weasley ask. ‘Who are you going to the ball with?’

Draco smirked.

‘I’m not telling you,’ Granger said, ‘you’ll just make fun of me.’

‘You’re joking, Weasley!’ Draco shouted, swaggering up to them. ‘You’re not telling me someone’s asked _that_ to the ball? Not the long-molared Mudblood?’

Potter and Weasley both whipped around, but the Mudblood said loudly, waving to somebody over Draco’s shoulder, ‘Hello, Professor Moody!’

Startled, Draco jumped backward, looking wildly around for Moody, but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Twitchy little ferret, aren’t you, Malfoy?’ said the filthy Mudblood scathingly.

Before Draco could think of a hex, he felt warm fingers on his hand.

Harry Potter touched his hand. He was grinning. ‘You deserved that one, mate.’

Draco was lost for words. He felt like being hugged and punched in the face at the same time. Only when the three of them went up the marble staircase, laughing heartily, Draco found his voice again.

‘I’m not your _mate_ , Potter!’

Harry leaned over the balustrade, squinting at Draco in concentration, and aimed his wand.

Before Draco could think to defend himself, Harry fired. A messy kiss landed on Draco’s upper lip. Tingling all over, a warmth spread from Draco’s face to the entire rest of his body.

So this was the kind of guy he was dealing with here, Draco furiously realised: Draco’s own kissing charm, abused against him! He’d planted a little kiss on Harry’s neck when no one was looking, and in revenge Harry practically snogged Draco in front of everyone! That promised something for the Yule Ball…

. . .

Draco was sitting on the edge of his bed in just his briefs, enchanting his skin to glow as preparation for the Yule Ball that evening. The tip of his tongue stuck out in concentration, when Pansy burst into the room.

‘ _Tonight’s the night you’re gonna make it happen_ ,’ she sang in his ear.

Draco shoved her aside. ‘ _Ta gueule_.’

She’d made a full recovery of her temporary lovesickness. Easy enough, Draco thought, when one could avoid the Ball in its entirety. Her glorious sister would come to her rescue at four already.

She didn’t have to worry about her dress looking weird or her hair being flat or what people would think when their one and only wonderboy entered the room with their worst enemy, or how in the name of Merlin one could be alone with one’s date with the entire student body present.

Draco felt nauseous – but he felt excited too. No matter what, Harry Potter had said yes to him. Life was never going to top this. Draco just had to rise to the challenge, as Father would say.

Well… Father would say something else entirely if he knew who Draco would be going to the Yule Ball with. Thankfully, it didn’t interest him enough to ask.

Other people _had_ asked, but Draco generally wore people out, so they treasured the time Draco wasn’t talking to them, and they specifically never pressed the matter after he started a rant about the renown of the Yule Ball in contrast with the Malfoy standard. Half the time, Draco himself didn’t even know what he was talking about. Scaring people off came naturally to him.

‘Draconius,’ Pansy interrupted his thoughts, plopping down next to him. ‘Rotilda says Potter is going with those ugly Patil-sisters.’

‘Both of them?’ Draco smirked. ‘Such a floozy.’

‘No, just one, and the other is going with Weasley.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Pansington. I’ll have you know that the Patils personally informed me they are going with the Weasel and some poor Hufflepuff kid – I offered them my condolences.’

Pansy raised her eyebrows. ‘Look at you! All mature.’

Draco preened. ‘Cho Chang is going with Diggory. The Weasley-girl is going with Longbottom – ’

Pansy burst out laughing. ‘How embarrassing!’

‘– and Rotilda was never a threat to start with,’ he concluded. ‘Harry Potter is going with me.’

He furrowed his brow in concentration to try the incantation once more. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable – must be the truth. The art of deduction,’ he muttered.

Pansy pushed his hand so his charm was ruined and he screamed in frustration. She laughed and took her wand to do it for him.

‘You’re a loony,’ she said fondly. ‘Why do you always want to look like vampires? Does Potter even like vampires?’

She’d always been unsupportive of Draco’s aesthetic. For instance, every summer she would try to convince him to get out of the shade, to get some vitamin D or – oh horror – “grab a tan”. It was infuriating how adamant she was on cramping his style.

Her glimmering charm got absolutely marvellous over the years, though, he couldn’t deny that. Humming happily, Draco stretched his legs on the bed while she went over them with her wand. He wiggled his toes. ‘You sure you’re not staying? You’ll miss out on me looking _impeccable_ in the best dress robes ever made.’

Pansy shrugged. ‘I’ll see them at another ball.’

She ducked away when Draco tried to kick her in the face. ‘As if! Who do you think you’re dealing with here, little orphan Annie?! I’m not wearing the same dress robes twice!’

Pansy laughed her shrieking laugh.

When Draco wasn’t dreaming about Harry J. Potter, he was thinking of his beautiful robes. They were gorgeous and soft and fitted him like a glove. Mother and he had been going to all the finest dressmakers in the country to find the perfect robes, and this was it. They made Draco look like a _man;_ a real man, like Harry…

That was what Draco focussed on, on that day of the Yule Ball: not the whispers and the looks, but his dress robes, and the music that would be playing – they said Dumbledore had booked the Weird Sisters! Draco knew their songs by heart and now he would see them in real life! Then again, people also claimed that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta, and Draco didn’t expect that to be true. Still, it promised to be quite the party tonight.

. . .

Weak in the knees, Draco led his friends up to the Great Hall that night.

He couldn’t stop himself from picturing Harry in dress robes; would they be as gorgeous as Draco’s? Or would they look like all Harry’s clothes: faded, too big and a little outdated? It didn’t really matter, he supposed, as long as Harry was underneath them; with his arms and shoulders and eyes and smiles and with that touch of mystery and strength… Draco sighed. 

They reached the top of the stairs, emerging from the safety of the Dungeon to the commotion of the Entrance Hall. The doors to the Great Hall were still closed, and almost the entire school was gathered at the Entrance Hall; all milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those who were meeting partners from different Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find one another.

Draco nervously craned his neck. He didn’t see Harry yet, but he did see a ginger head – alone, wearing those frilly, ugly dress robes.

‘Weasley! Hey! Weasley!’

‘What?’ growled Weasley.

‘Cute dress!’

The Slytherins around them laughed, but Crabbe and Goyle almost peed themselves.

‘Did your friends drop you?’ Draco jeered. ‘No one wants to be seen with their dead grandmother, I reckon?’

Weasley turned marvellously red. ‘No! I mean – Harry will be here. In a minute.’

‘Aw, did he get permission from your father to be your date?’

‘Shut up, Malfoy!’

Draco laughed scathingly. ‘I bet Potter’s still trying to beg someone to come with you. Shame you couldn’t _pay_ anyone, right, Weasley?’

‘I told you – ’

The doors to the Great Hall were thrown open, cutting Weasley off mid-sentence. Padma Patil grabbed his hand to yank him inside the Great Hall. Draco wondered who he felt sorrier for: Weasley or Patil.

Draco watched everyone get inside, pushing Vincent and Gregory to go too. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

Slowly, the Entrance Hall emptied, leaving Draco alone.

After the last girl rushed down the Marble Staircase – barefoot and hopping to put on some very high heels, but strutting in like she was late on purpose – the Entrance Hall was completely empty.

Still, there was no sign of Potter.

Did Draco get stood up? Was this all one elaborated joke? Did Harry somehow sneak inside without him? With Cho Chang, or – heaven forbid – the Weasley girl?

Draco shivered. This couldn’t be happening. All alone, in his beautiful robes, with no one to admire them. Inside the Great Hall, he could hear the Weird Sisters being announced. For a moment, Draco thought about going in on his own, but he realised he couldn’t care less about any band anymore. He just wanted to know why Harry didn’t show up.

There was nothing for it, but to go on a search for his date. Draco had a vague idea of where the Gryffindor tower was located. It had to be, he theorized, in one of the towers. The castle only had about five or six of those, so how difficult would it be to locate the right one? Every tower had four floors, so that left him with about… twenty-four options.

He faltered a little at this realisation, but straightened his back. All the more reason to get cracking, he firmly told himself.

First, he went to the Northern Tower, starting at the top, because he was quite sure he saw the Gryffindors take the staircase a lot. Not knowing what he was looking for exactly, he couldn’t really find something that resembled an entrance, and there wasn’t anyone around either who could give him any clues. He thought about the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room and how it was invisible until you said the password. He slowly breathed in and out, forcing himself not to give up. Potter was probably just waiting for Draco to pick him up outside their Common Room. This was no doubt merely the result of some silly miscommunication. If Harry went to the Entrance Hall while Draco was going to the Gryffindor tower they would miss each other, so it made sense for Harry to stay put and wait for Draco – even though the ball had started half an hour ago already.

So he went on to search at the Eastern Tower. Along the way, he got slightly lost, because he got distracted: he could swear he saw the Grey Lady, but she never showed herself. There was a reason he usually followed his classmates around through the castle: his mind kept wandering with all those mysteries going on in this castle, and those bloody moving staircases didn’t help…

When he rounded the corner to the stairs, Draco jumped and froze when a great bawl echoed through the stairwell. It sounded as if someone was in a particularly tight spot – and Draco recognized that voice without a second thought.

He felt like running over to Harry at once, but forced himself to quietly get closer first. Peeking around the tapestry of a secret corridor, he saw Potter, sitting halfway along one of the moving staircases. His arms were on top of his head and he looked as if he was about to cry. It made Draco’s heart fall.

He waited impatiently until the staircase reached him, then sneaked up a few steps and casually arranged himself against the banister.

‘Scared, Potter?’

Harry jumped.

Draco allowed himself a moment to take in Harry’s dress robes. They were a shade of dark green that made his eyes glimmer like emeralds. They looked modest, but fitted him well and they were definitely new.

With his hands in his pockets, Draco swaggered up the moving stairs. ‘You butter me up with talk about jumpers and leggings and then you wear that?’

Harry looked down at his dress robes. ‘You don’t like them?’

Draco sat down next to Harry. ‘I didn’t say that.’

Oh, how Draco wished he could show Harry around, boast to everyone that The Boy Who Lived was _his_. Between Harry’s classy robes and Draco’s beautiful ones, everyone would be gushing over the gorgeous couple they made,

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ said Harry. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘We should– we shouldn’t miss the opening dance.’

‘Oh, I’m quite sure we have, Potter,’ said Draco. ‘That was an hour ago.’

With a heartfelt groan, Harry looked up. ‘Oh _no_. Draco, I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.’

‘Oh, stop it, that vulgar dance is an affront to the entire concept of a _ball_ , and to be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to the… the _looks_ either. I prefer to have you to myself anyway.’

It seemed to have been the right thing to say: Harry relaxed a little. ‘You do?’ he mumbled. ‘I-I know what you mean.’

Draco’s insides made a somersault. ‘Splendid,’ he drawled. ‘Come along then.’

Harry took a deep breath – and he grabbed the hand Draco held out for him. It felt like the castle spun around them, as Draco could almost feel the pieces of his life falling into place: his hand belonged in Harry’s.

Forcing his eyes forwards, he started climbing the stairs, Harry following at his heel. After a while, Harry’s loose hand touched Draco’s wrist. His fingertips started stroking Draco’s forearm, sending shivers through his spine. He felt a great urge to push Harry into the wall and –

No, Draco reprimanded himself, focus.

Not until they reached a doorless corridor did Draco let go of Harry’s hand – reluctantly. ‘Don’t move.’

Like Primrose had explained, he paced up and down the corridor three times, concentrating on what he needed most: a place where Harry and he could be alone _and_ at the Yule Ball.

This’d better work, he thought, or he’d look like a complete arse in front of Harry J. Potter. Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted the Parkinsons so much on this most important night of his entire life. His entire future happiness as well as his marriage with the love of his life stood or fell on this room appearing.

After pacing back and forth three times, he nervously opened his eyes, almost too scared to look.

He looked. There was a door. Draco wanted to whoop; it had worked!

Instead, he kept his cool and opened the door, gesturing for Harry to go in. ‘Saints first.’

Harry chuckled. Then he stepped through the door, and Draco noticed his jaw drop. Draco followed and forced himself not to copy Harry’s expression. He’d planned this, of course; there were no surprises to world-wise Draco Malfoy.

It looked amazing though. They walked into the Great Hall, but it was deserted. The walls had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, all empty. Along the sides were tables filled with food and drinks, and there was music coming from an unknown source, but just as loud as Draco supposed it was downstairs in the real Great Hall.

‘How – how–…’

‘Like it?’ Draco asked, flinging his gorgeous cloak aside and putting his hands in his pockets.

Harry moaned. He actually _moaned_ – about something Draco had done. ‘Blimey Dra, how do you do these things? How are you so good at… _everything_?’

Draco let out a short, derisive laugh. ‘It’s my upbringing, I’m sure.’ He swaggered away. ‘Can I offer you a drink, Potter?’

Harry took a bow. ‘You may,’ he answered in an odd, posh voice.

It made Draco laugh; it sounded nervous. Quickly, he handed Harry a drink.

‘This is perfect,’ said Harry, slouching against the table to gaze at the decorations. Suddenly, the worried frown reappeared. ‘Do you think I’ll get into trouble for not turning up?’

Draco sneered, ‘Harry Potter, scared of getting into trouble?’

‘Wonderful Saint Potter,’ Harry said with a grin. ‘We _did_ practice ages on it. On that dance… Seems like such a waste now.’

‘My god, Harry, if you _want_ to do the dance just say it.’

Harry frowned. ‘How though? We only learned the men’s steps.’ He looked up. ‘We couldn’t even have done the dance!’

Draco – triumphantly laughing on the inside – lifted an eyebrow. ‘Think again.’

Harry blinked stupidly.

‘Well?’ Draco demanded.

It made Harry jump. ‘Sorry.’ He held out his hand. ‘Draco, _mate_ –…’

‘NO!’ Draco crossed his arms and Harry let out a great whoop of laughter that made Draco’s heart leap. Then he grabbed Draco’s hand and pulled him to the brightly lit dancefloor. There, he looked at their hands and their feet, and he seemed to freeze on the spot, leaving it up to Draco – again – to take charge.

So Draco seized one of the boy’s hands, placed it around his waist and held the other in his own, trying very hard not to think about how close he was to Harry Potter – or about the fact that he was dancing with a _guy_ , which was decidedly _malapropos_ in pure-blood circles _._ It was very difficult not to lose his mind, with Harry’s hand feeling warm on his hip; Draco felt it all the way through his robes.

They started out slowly revolving at the spot – which was marvellous – but as the dance progressed, Harry started staring at their feet more and more. It seemed to demand all of his attention to simply stay upright and remember the steps. Clearly, the boy was not having any fun and Draco started longing for the end of the song.

At long last, the music died away. They broke apart at once, finally allowing Draco to breathe again. Harry looked up from his feet and smack into Draco’s eyes, looking exhausted and unsure. It was awful.

‘Merlin, Potter, I thought it would never end.’ Draco wiped off his forehead and dusted his hands.

‘Tell me about it,’ Harry said, panting. ‘Everything for the fans.’

In an impulse, Draco bowed to the invisible public. To his great joy, Harry lifted an invisible hat in response to invisible applause. Draco wanted to kiss his dorky face.

To distract himself from his animal urges, Draco started carefully rolling up his sleeves, while Harry took off his cloak, leaving him standing in a moss green blouse with the sleeve buttons loose, showing a peek at his forearms.

‘How do you know the girls’ steps to that dance?’ he asked.

There was no way Draco was going to admit he’d practiced for hours on it just to do one dance with Potter. ‘Again, it’s my upbringing,’ he lied. ‘Got taught how to dance before I got taught how to walk.’

‘Aha…’ mumbled Harry, kicking his robes away from the dance floor. ‘Payed off.’

‘Now,’ Draco drawled, ‘can we move on from this… suffocating formality… and go berserk?’

He was met with glazy eyes from Potter, who'd probably never gone berserk for even a second of his life. Not everyone had the pleasure to have been invited to Parkinson parties, Draco supposed.

‘Woo!’ Draco demonstrated, waving his hands and dancing around his axis. As if the Weird Sisters downstairs heard him, the music started picking up speed and Draco began to jump.

Harry’s grin turned into laughter. Draco stopped jumping to grab his collar, shouting, ‘Stop laughing, Potter!’ even though he was grinning too. ‘I’m trying to break loose here!’

‘You mean like… this?’ said Harry, stepping back, and he started to headbang like he was in a metal band; his hair magically grew a few inches to help.

Within seconds, they had to hold onto each other, they were laughing so hard.

‘Or – or like this!’ Draco put on a mock hazy smile and imitated the way Mr. Lovegood and Loony always danced.

Harry doubled over from laughing, then he grabbed Draco’s arm to get his attention and started doing the weirdest dance with his hands and arms, pointing to the sky and to the sides, with his other hand on his hip. He looked so dumb, Draco wanted to kiss him.

Excitedly, Draco tapped Harry’s chest. ‘You know how Pansy’s brother dances? Look, it’s all in the face.’ He lowered his eyebrows and pursed his lips, as he lifted his fists and simply swayed a little on the beat. He pointed at his face and Potter grinned, then started trying to copy him. They had a hard time keeping their faces like Penstemon’s; they kept cracking up. 

When the song was over, Draco asked Harry what he thought of the band. He curled his finger around a beltloop of Harry’s pants. ‘Do you know them?’

‘No, but I like them.’

Though the stage was empty, both their heads shot up when a new energetic song started with a bang. Before Draco could think, his body responded to the beat.

He’d never been allowed or able to dance freely, truly freely; to let music touch him physically. There was always someone expecting him to remain dignified, to be and do whatever he was meant to. His parents would never allow him to listen to music this loudly, and even at the Parkinson Property he felt judged; either by Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson, or by the ever so cool older Parkinsons, Primrose and Penstemon. Every once in a while, Pansy would try to get Draco to loosen up to music in her bedroom, but her moves were so much better than his, that he felt embarrassed to even try.

With Harry, he had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. Potter had no dance skills whatsoever, yet enough self-confidence for the both of them. Draco absorbed the music and allowed his body to do what it felt like, and when he glanced at Harry, he too seemed to be letting it all go. It wasn’t exactly dancing what he was doing – shaking his head and waving his arms and jumping around – but he seemed to be having as much fun as Draco. Within minutes, they were laughing and screaming and Harry looked happier than Draco’d seen him in a long time.

Gradually, their dance slowed down as their energy levels dropped. Draco was panting, but still smiling like an idiot; he didn’t even hold it in anymore. This was the best night of his life; dancing alone with wonderful Harry Potter.

They gravitated towards each other, inching closer with each song, until Harry bumped into Draco. Intertwining their fingers, Harry dropped his forehead against Draco’s and closed his eyes. At that, Draco lost all control and put an arm around Harry’s neck, pressing his eyes closed too. 

Mother would faint seeing him like this; Father would either scream or never look at him again. But they were not here, Draco reminded himself, and Harry was. His warm fingers were playing around Draco’s waist.

Swaying slightly at the music, they sluggishly revolved at the spot, and for the first time in forever, Draco felt at ease. For a moment, the eternal storm inside him settled.

He allowed his fingers to touch Harry’s neck, running along his skin under the tufts of his marvellous magical hair. It wasn’t crackling now, but there was still a faint rustle coming from it. Carefully, Draco touched it, half expecting to get a shock, but nothing like that happened; Harry’s hair felt like any other, ordinary hair.

Stroking Harry’s neck with his thumb, he felt butterflies all through his body; they could fly out of his ears any moment. To make matters worse, Harry moved his hand down from Draco’s waist to pull up his shirt, and he ran his thumb over Draco’s bare skin. Draco bit his lip to hold in a gasp, but clasped his hand into Harry’s hair as if it would keep his knees from giving in.

Harry’s hand slid under Draco’s shirt entirely now, forming figures on his skin with his fingers. Draco closed his eyes and nuzzled into Harry’s shoulder.

Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss.

The only reason Draco knew time had passed, was because his throat started to bug him. He tried to ignore it, but there was no denying after a while: he really needed a drink.

Reluctantly, he lowered his arm from Harry’s neck, but took his hand instead. Shyly avoiding Harry’s eyes, he cleared his throat. ‘Potter, I’m parched.’

Thinking he would be a complete buffoon to let go of Harry’s hand as long as Harry held on to his, Draco went about to pour in drinks with only one hand.

‘I can do this,’ Draco muttered when the boy tried to help.

‘I don’t doubt it at this point.’ Harry grinned. ‘It’s just… needlessly difficult.’

‘ _You’re_ needlessly difficult.’

He pushed a drink in Harry’s hand and sat down on the table. ‘It’s a fairly quiet ball, isn’t it,’ he said, looking around the empty hall. ‘They should have promoted it more. Nothing to make a party flop as much as bad PR, what do you think?’

‘I think you’re rambling.’

‘How dare you, Potter, I never _ramble_. I _remark_.’ He lifted his chin. ‘I _observe_. I–…’

Laughing, Harry grabbed Draco’s face and pressed his mouth against Draco’s skin. ‘Shut _up_ , Dra.’

Draco felt the butterflies surge under his skin. His voice faltered, ‘ – make conversation…’

Harry was looking intensely at him – or more specifically, at Draco’s mouth.

Draco panicked. Again, it dawned on him that Harry was so awfully much a _boy_. He should never have wanted this so badly; look what it led to! He shouldn’t be doing this, not with a _boy_ and _certainly_ not with – with… Harry J. Potter –

His breathing quickened, his heart raced. He knew he should stop this at once, lean back and duck away from the Boy Who Lived before it could get even worse –

Harry leaned in – Draco braced himself –

Harry’s lips touched Draco’s; soft and warm and – 

‘Mmglad they did so bad,’ Draco heard himself blurt out. Before his panic could take over entirely, Harry’s nose touched Draco’s… and he laughed. The sound made Draco’s skin tingle, from the tip of his nose to the nails on his fingers. ‘You know,’ he kept babbling, ‘because otherwise – ’

Without warning, Harry kissed him once more –

‘ – Saint Potter’d be all over the news again!’ 

Draco felt like hitting himself, but to his bewilderment, Harry laughed again. He laughed in the way that only Harry Potter laughed – and Draco’s panic melted away, together with his objections and reservations. He took Harry’s face and planted a dozen tiny kisses on every part of his mouth. It felt weird and wonderful and absolutely right.

He was kissing a boy, a guy, a man… a _celebrity_ , his Potions partner – Ah, the _love of his life_! And it felt exactly how it should.

Harry shifted a little, then suddenly lost his balance and jerked away, slamming his head into Draco’s nose.

‘OUCH!’ howled Draco, clutching his nose. ‘You OAF!’ Then he roared with laughter, which only got worse when Harry groaned, face flushed, glasses askew and looking mortified. ‘How did you _ever_ manage to defeat the Dark Lord,’ Draco jeered. ‘Twice?! It’s a mystery to me!’

For a second, Harry looked miserable. Then he dragged Draco’s legs around his waist, took Draco’s hand away from his face and gently kissed his nose, spiralling from the tip of it to the edges.

It was safe to say that Draco’s entire being shut down. For solid seconds, his mind went completely blank, his muscles gave up and every cell in his body seemed to be fruitlessly gasping for breath.

‘Oh,’ he whispered. Closing his eyes, he leant into Harry, who went on to kiss the corner of his mouth. Draco couldn’t believe what was happening. His useless Potions partner; the boy who fell off his broom every match without exception – ‘Harry,’ Draco breathed, ‘you’ve got _moves_.’

At once, Harry broke out of it and cracked up. ‘Dra, I’m _begging_ you! Shut _up_!’ Harry’s eyes locked onto Draco’s before the latter had a chance to pull himself together. Quickly, Draco dropped his gaze.

Harry nuzzled his nose and Draco made to kiss him again, but then –

The lights went off. All at once.

Instinctively, Draco pulled Harry closer. ‘What’s happening?’

Only then did he notice the music had stopped, perhaps long ago. Downstairs, the ball must have been over.

They were sitting in the dark, blinking, waiting for their eyes to get used to the lack of light, when Harry started wailing, leaning his head on Draco's shoulder. ‘Oooh, I wasted so much time.’

Draco hated to see his homeboy like that, so – thinking fast – he hissed, ‘Let’s go to the astronomy tower.’ He picked up Harry’s face. ‘ _To the stars_!’

When Harry’s eyes lit up, Draco felt like crowing in triumph.

Only illuminated by the light of the moon and the stars in the enchanted ceiling, Potter reached into his pocket and took out a little package. It looked like thin fabric, folded into a compact bundle. As Harry shook it, the bundle regained its shape – and it turned out to be a light cloak. Harry wrapped it around himself… and vanished.

Draco yelped. Then he realised – it must have been an Invisibility Cloak! He knew those were incredibly rare and expensive! The quality of the cloak must have been superb, because Harry was completely invisible. Not just see-through like with Vincent’s stupid Cloak, which he had been so proud of despite being a cheap rip-off. With this one, no one could see the wearer at all, not even their outline.

Before he could recover from his astonishment, Harry threw the Cloak around Draco too, pushing the two of them together. From the inside, the cloak looked like see-through velvet, if that existed. It was gorgeous. Baffled, Draco softly touched the fabric to examine it.

Reclaiming his attention at once, Harry’s fingers intertwined with Draco’s, to lead him through the castle. It was a great feeling, Draco found out, to be led by Harry Potter. He wished it would last forever. Usually, it was Draco who did the leading. Even if he just wanted to lay back, it somehow still came down to him to ask the real questions or to tell everyone what they should be doing – he simply knew best.

Not when he was with Harry J. Potter, it turned out. Potter knew the way; Potter knew what to do; Potter would keep Draco healthy and warm. He relished in the feeling.

They passed groups of students and several _pairs_ of students. Draco kept wanting to prank them or say something clever to make Harry laugh, but Harry was not to be distracted. It suddenly became clear to Draco how The Boy Who Lived had managed to discover all those Hogwarts secrets, like Salazar’s Chamber or the Philosopher’s stone: Harry Potter was dedicated.

Snorting at another one of Draco's attempts to make him snap out of his focus, Harry did a Silencio around the Cloak. ‘Come _on_ , Dra,’ he said. ‘Keep your eye on the prize.’ He kept pulling Draco like he was an untrained Crup on a leash.

‘Are _you_ the prize, Potter?’ Draco snarled.

Harry turned round to shoot him a look, which made Draco smirk – and look away. Because by Merlin, was Potter the prize. As far as prizes went, Potter was the Order of Merlin. Not for the first time – nor the last – Draco wondered how he’d gotten himself in this position: holding hands with The Boy Who Lived, _en route_ to snogging somewhere horribly romantic. It was not a likely scenario – not for a Malfoy in general and not for Draco Malfoy in particular.

There was no way this could last, Draco realised with a heart-sinking shock. He’d better enjoy the heck out of it while he still could.

Harry interrupted his worries most adequately. ‘What are you thinking, Draconius?’

Draconius – he’d called him by his family’s nickname. If only he knew how much that made Draco feel at home with him.

Harry was still looking like he expected an answer, though, and Draco was quite thrown off his game. ‘You’re such a big deal, Potter,’ he blurted out.

Harry burst out laughing.

As Draco tried to shake off all the unusual, melodramatic feelings – he felt like an entirely different person tonight and he didn’t care for it – a faint memory popped into his head. His mother once talked about an energy core within her, as if it was the core of her being, her soul. When she used dark magic – the most powerful kind – she reached into that core and felt who she really was; without the outer casing, the opinions, the must-be’s and the want-to-be’s – that core was who she actually was. She had told him all this offhandedly during a fitting session he’d been forced to accompany her to, but it had stuck with him ever since. He had practiced the trick in hopes of becoming a more powerful wizard, and whenever he used it, it did seem to strengthen his magic.

Having all these sappy, alien feelings made him perform the trick now. He watched himself as if from a distance: Draco Malfoy, heir to Malfoy Manor, youngest in a long line of an ancient, pure-blood, noble family – going together with Harry J. Potter; Boy Who Lived, Parselmouth and Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

‘It’s really only _natural_ you picked me,’ he concluded.

At that, Harry hooked his fingers around the top of Draco’s trousers to pull him even closer and he kissed him on the cheek a few times. It took everything Draco had not to fall back into the Pit of Giddiness and Swooning.

The Core, the Core –

‘I don’t know why we’d even hide it, Scarhead,’ Draco blabbered helplessly, ‘we’re easily the only ones in this school in _our league_.’

‘Oh yeah, totally,’ said Harry dryly. ‘We’re so much better than everyone here; us two. By far.’

Draco wondered how in the world his legs were still carrying him. ‘Miles above them, in every possible way…’

‘We could replace the teachers in a heartbeat if we wanted, right?’

Draco grinned. ‘Without a shred of doubt!’

‘You’re a brat, Draconius.’

That was the bloody limit.

Sticking out his leg, Draco violently tripped Potter, just so he could use the boy’s momentum to pin him up against a wall. Kissing proved a challenge, though, when the two of them couldn’t stop laughing, and one of them kept complaining about pain.

Somehow they reached the astronomy tower, eventually. Draco used his parent’s picnic spell to make the tiles feel soft and warm, and they laid down – the invisibility cloak still safely covering them both – to watch the stars.

Or well, Draco was watching the stars, jabbering continuously. When he looked aside, Harry was watching him with that familiar – yet ever so baffling – look of amazement on his gorgeous face.

Draco felt like making fun of him. They should have called him The Boy Who Knew Absolutely Nothing And Was Impressed All The Damn Time By Even The Slightest Sign Of Knowledge (or: TBWKANAWIBETSTATDT for short). 

Or better yet: The Boy Who Was Adorable.

Fixing his gaze safely on the universe, Draco tried to show Harry the Draco-constellation, but Harry was useless and couldn’t find it.

‘You’re so blind. No wonder you’re with _me_ , you just don’t know any better.’

Harry snorted. ‘I’ve seen Cedric.’

‘Diggory’s a dweeb,’ sneered Draco. ‘I’d be offended – ’

‘You _are_ offended.’ Grinning, Harry leaned on an elbow and covered Draco’s lips with soft, fluttery kisses. He took his time with them, as if he needed to memorize his way around for later. His fingers slowly traced Draco’s cheek. His thumb touched Draco’s chin, gingerly nudging him to open his mouth – Draco obeyed – and, smiling as if he did something cheeky, Harry licked the tip of Draco’s tongue.

Shivers ran across Draco’s spine and he almost giggled. Thankfully, he kept his cool, because that really would have been embarrassing.

When Harry dared to do it again, and Draco’s muscles turned into liquid, he knew this demanded revenge. Cupping Harry’s cheek, he returned the favour as he pushed Harry on his back and pressed his wrists against the tiles. When Potter tried to pull loose, Draco only pressed harder, whispering, ‘You’re mine.’

Harry stopped struggling.

Smirking, Draco bit into Harry’s neck like a vampire and kissed him all over, and Harry stretched his fingers to intertwine them with Draco’s.

. . .

Draco woke up from sunlight hitting his eyelids. That wasn’t unusual, given that his alarm clock was made of sunshine. What was unusual was the fact that someone was wrapped around him, or that when he opened his eyes, he wasn’t staring at the top of his four-poster bed, but at a bright, blue sky.

He bolted upright, looking around – to find Harry Potter lying peacefully beside him.

With a jolt the memories of last night came back to him and a feeling of jittery warmth spread through Draco’s body. It had been wonderful – good lord, had it been wonderful – but… they were definitely not supposed to still be there.

Draco tried to get out from underneath the Invisibility Cloak, but it was intricately wrapped around the two of them. It pissed him off more every second. ‘ _Morceau de merde_!’

Lovely, wonderful Potter blinkingly opened his sleepy emeralds.

‘Harry, it’s _light_!’ Draco hissed.

Potter got up on an elbow, drowsily helping Draco get free from the cloak. He clearly didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation.

 _‘Putain de merde_ , it’s _light_ , Potter!’ Draco gestured furiously at the sky. ‘You dung-brain, we haven’t returned to our dorms!’

‘Oh…’ Slowly the penny seemed to drop. Harry’s eyes widened. ‘ _Oh._ ’

‘How will you explain?!’

Harry furrowed his brow. ‘We were sick? Wait, how will _I_ explain? Don’t you?’

‘Oh, I’ll tell some blatant lie and nobody will listen, but _you_ …’

‘I’m a big deal,’ Harry added with a twinkle in his eyes. Draco felt like shaking him up, and perhaps Harry noticed, because he turned serious. ‘I’ll figure it out, Dra. You know, I _have_ lied before.’

‘Did you then?’ Draco snarled. ‘And how did that work out for you?’

Sluggishly, Harry seized Draco’s collar and hauled him closer. Draco froze and thawed when Harry planted soft, warm, tender kisses on his lips, then whispered, ‘It got me to the stars with Draco Malfoy.’ He smiled.

‘Oh you’re a-… y-you’re a…’ Draco took a deep breath to plant himself securely back on planet Earth. ‘A problem. I've got to leave.’

And with that Draco ran away. He bolted down the stairs, not looking back once.

The way down to the Dungeon was deserted, but when he burst into the Slytherin Common Room, he was greeted with half a dozen Slytherins recovering from last night – and Draco was still wearing his dress robes.

One by one his house mates looked up and started hollering and whistling. Draco felt his face burning… and a big grin spreading. He took a bow.

‘Had fun then?’ Adrian asked loudly.

‘I had,’ Draco informed the crowd, most dignified.

Daphne smirked. ‘Explains Potter’s absence too.’

Draco preened, but decided to remain silent, and quickly escaped to his dorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a massive project, every other minute I wonder if I should shorten it or quit altogether, bc wth, this is going to be over 300k words if I continue like this. I'm still having fun, but am I on the right track?  
> Maybe I'll make a short version if this is done, deleting like half of it or something and then calling this version the "extended edition" lol, the director's cut.  
>   
> Please let me know what you think in the comments!


	6. Draco Malfoy’s Secret Heartache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part 3 of 3 of Goblet of Fire.  
>   
> Going from fluff to angst in 22K words. *Shania Twain voice* Let's go girls

It turned out to be difficult for Draco to be discreet about his infatuation with Harry Potter. He would have preferred to be with him every second of every day, but as usual, Potter was accompanied by Granger and Weasley around the clock. It had been over twenty-four hours since Draco had bolted from the Astronomy Tower and he was _longing_ for his homeboy. Something had to give.

‘Potter!’ Draco yelled when he finally spotted Harry and his bodyguards near the library.

‘What?’

With a jerk of his chin, Draco beckoned him over in his most defiant way. Potter told his friends to keep walking, and as soon as they turned away, Draco jumped closer to seize his hand and yank him behind a tapestry into a hidden passageway. Once out of sight, Harry took over. Pressing Draco against the wall, he shoved his hands under Draco’s shirt and nuzzled his neck. ‘Hey Dra,’ he breathed with a smile in his voice.

Draco lost the ability to form words. His hands fluttered over Harry’s body as if they couldn’t choose the best place to land, but when Harry pressed their foreheads together and Draco felt the warmth of Harry’s breath on his cheeks, Draco’s muscles relaxed. His hands rested on Harry’s chest, and he closed his eyes, feeling like he could finally breathe again.

‘Hey Harry…’

. . .

In the middle of the night, Draco woke up from his bed moving as if somebody was climbing in. He bolted upright, but there was no one there. For a second he thought he’d dreamt it, but then he felt something again: hands on his legs.

Not a split-second too soon, an invisible voice from the dark whispered, ‘Silencio,’ and Draco cut his terrified scream short. ‘Potter, _fait chier_ – warn first!’

The blanket moved on its own – Harry Potter was in Draco’s bed. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

Draco got pressed down into the pillow as an invisible arm lay over his chest; invisible fingers played with his ear. Harry’s sigh felt hot in Draco’s neck.

Draco yanked the hood of the Invisibility Cloak away from Harry’s face so he could press a little kiss on his forehead. He felt around some more and discovered Harry was shirtless, the way he’d been in the Hospital Wing. A small, excited shriek escaped Draco as he rolled Harry over to jump on top of him. That Cloak had to go.

‘No – Draco,’ Potter mumbled. ‘Stop.’

Draco rolled on his back, looking up at the ceiling and breathing out slowly to calm down.

After a beat, Harry sat up, looking bewildered. ‘Why’d you stop?’

Draco blinked. ‘You told me to.’

‘Yeah, well… since when does anyone listen?’ Harry grinned awkwardly, as if his remark wasn’t disturbing.

Draco raised himself on his elbows, frowning. ‘Seriously? You know, I, unlike you, had an actual upbringing. So I, unlike you, have been taught that no means no.’

Harry flashed a half-grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Right… Except when Ron says it.’

‘Obviously.’ Draco couldn’t control himself and pressed his lips to Harry’s side to make a farting noise. It made Harry snigger. ‘So?’ Draco drawled. ‘What’s it gonna be, boy? Want me to stop or not?’

Harry kept quiet for a while. Then he let out a tiny breath and muttered, ‘Not.’

Draco snorted, climbing onto Potter’s lap to cup his face and kiss him senseless while Harry’s hands started exploring.

Suddenly, Draco gasped and pulled back. ‘We need a secret code!’

Harry was breathing heavily, his eyes marvellously foggy. ‘What?’

‘I mean –’ Draco tried to talk and kiss at the same time ‘– if your no doesn’t mean no –’ it was a little difficult ‘– we need a word that –’ kiss ‘– does.’

‘Why?’ Potter mumbled, almost unintelligible from beneath Draco’s lips.

With a heavy sigh, Draco backed away. ‘So that you can keep saying no, you know, pretend you hate me or whatever, and I can pretend to be the bastard who bullies you, but I _will_ listen and stop when you say the code word that means no for _you_. You see? It’s brilliant.’

Harry started grinning, not looking up at Draco. ‘Bullies me?’ he repeated, stroking Draco’s stomach.

‘Well? Give me a code word,’ Draco drawled. ‘I haven’t got all night, you know.’

Harry smiled with his eyes closed, nuzzling Draco’s nose. Then he yanked at Draco’s legs to topple him over backwards and climb on top of him. ‘What sort of word, Mister Malfoy?’

Draco’s breathing came in short little gasps now. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He yelped and moaned as Harry undressed him and got to work. ‘It should be… easy – but, you know, not something – ooh, baby…’ He sighed at Harry’s handiwork. ‘Not something – eeeh – Good Merlin… Wait.’ He gasped loudly. ‘Oof – Wait, Harry, I can’t think.’

Harry’s messy head popped into Draco’s field of vision, not making it easier to think at all. He playfully kissed Draco’s face. ‘Yes?’

Draco lost his train of thought. ‘Yes,’ he sighed.

Grinning, Harry backed off, ignoring Draco’s displeased sounds. ‘What sort of word, Dra?’ He softly asked, looking intently at Draco, as if they were in Potions class and Draco had all the answers.

Drawing a heavy breath, Draco sat up on his knees, his back straight as a line. ‘Right… Well… you know,’ he drawled, forcing himself to think straight too.

‘It should be easy, you said,’ Harry helped him. ‘Not something –?’ He tilted his head, eyes aglow. ‘I didn’t quite get what you said after that.’

Draco faux-glared at him. ‘Yes. Thank you. The word should be easy enough to remember, but not something you would say during… well… moments like these.’

‘Alright…’ Harry frowned, his grin turning into a smirk. ‘How about… Vernon?’

Draco raised a brow. ‘Vernon? Who’s Vernon?’ 

‘My uncle. I don’t want to think of him now, but I won’t forget his name either.’

‘ _D’accord_ ,’ drawled Draco. ‘Lie down.’

Harry, who seemed delighted, dropped on his back and Draco got on top of him. 

‘No, don’t move. Stop wriggling, _lionceau_. I said: stop!’

A tiny smile broke through Harry’s face. ‘ _Lionceau_?’

‘Hush.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do as I say, Potter!’

Studying The Boy Who Lived as if he was a test subject, Draco started softly biting every bit of Harry he took a liking to. It made the boy laugh. ‘What are you doing, you vampire loony?’

‘Marking you, of course.’ Draco smirked. ‘Turn around.’

To his delight, Harry obeyed without question, sniggering softly.

Draco bit into Harry’s shoulder blades and climbed on top of his bare back. ‘You are a gosh-darn treat, Potter,’ he whispered, before biting into his earlobes.

Closing his eyes with a faint smile, Harry grabbed Draco’s pillow, mumbling. ‘I came here to sleep, Dra.’

Wrapping his arms around Harry’s soft waist and burying his face in Harry’s neck, Draco lay down on top of him. ‘Alright then. Let’s sleep.’

Harry threw the blanket half-heartedly over them, and Draco took over to pull it tight. With his eyes closed, the movements of Harry’s breathing went through Draco’s entire body. It felt like he floated on a calm river – a nice and warm river.

‘Draco?’ whispered Harry, his eyes closed.

‘Harry?’ Draco whispered back.

Harry just smiled.

It didn’t take long until his breathing changed, and with one slightly louder exhale, The Boy Who Lived was clearly off to dream land. It felt more intimate to Draco than anything else they could’ve been doing.

He nuzzled Harry’s hair. ‘ _Je t’aime_ …’

. . .

‘Professor Snape?’

Draco had stayed behind after everyone else left the Dungeons that Thursday afternoon.

‘Mister Malfoy?’ drawled Snape without looking up from the pile of essays they’d just handed in.

‘You know how much I love Potions, right, sir? It is my favourite subject, you see. My father–’

‘What do you want, Malfoy?’ Snape cut in.

Draco was thrown off for a second to change tactics and decided to cut to the chase. ‘Can you help me get these ingredients?’ He’d copied the ingredient list of the potion in _Magic For The Hopelessly Romantic_ that he’d wanted to make in summer. Now, he shoved the list under his Professor’s nose.

Snape read it without moving a muscle. ‘This is not for a Potion on the fourth-year curriculum,’ he concluded.

‘No, sir, it is – er – a private endeavour.’

Snape smirked. ‘Is that so? Interesting… Show me the recipe.’

‘Can you help me find the ingredients, sir?’

Snape looked into Draco’s eyes. ‘From this ingredient list alone I can tell that this is not a Potion for someone with your – how do I put it – skill set, Mister Malfoy. Let me help you.’

He took the ingredients list back from Snape. ‘That’s not necessary, sir, but thank you.’ Draco’s father told him to avoid looking Professor Snape in the eye, for some secret reason Draco was dying to know, so he looked away.

Snape lifted his eyebrows. ‘Draco, let me help you,’ he insisted.

‘You’ll just make fun of me,’ Draco muttered, ‘sir.’

‘Don’t be a fool.’ Snape smirked. ‘I will make fun of you regardless. Show me the recipe.’

Draco was torn. He really – _really_ – wanted to make the Potion. He’d collected some of Harry’s beautiful hairs from his pillow and everything. Contemplating his options for a while, he saw no other way out than to give in.

‘Alright, Professor, but you cannot tell – You cannot tell _anyone_ about this, sir.’

Snape’s thin mouth curled into a mocking smile.

Bracing himself, Draco took out _Magic For The Hopelessly Romantic_ and flipped it open at the bookmarked page. ‘There, sir. Laugh.’

Snape read the description, then slowly lifted the cover to read the book’s title. His smirk broadened. Clearly he was having his version of a laughing fit. ‘Dear, dear, Mister Malfoy…’

‘I know, Professor,’ Draco muttered, his cheeks burning. 

Suddenly moving so swiftly it startled him, Snape got up, took the ingredients list and started raiding his cupboard. ‘You have a part of – ah – the _other individual’s_ body?’ He turned to Draco with a mocking smirk. ‘Or more specifically: do you have some _crimson_?’

Draco bit back a nasty retort. ‘I do, sir,’ he stiffly replied. His face felt hotter every second, but Snape went diligently to work regardless of any malicious mirth. At first, Draco wondered why Snape seemed so eager to help, but he soon realised Snape simply enjoyed making the potion. At a certain point, Draco would not have been surprised if his professor had started to hum or whistle.

‘You ever made this one before, Professor?’ Draco asked, sitting on his knees on a chair and leaning his arms on the desk to watch Snape crush Ashwinder egg shells.

‘Once. A long time ago,’ mumbled Snape.

‘Did you make it for yourself, sir?’

‘That is for me to know and for you to wonder.’

‘That means yes, Professor,’ said Draco smugly. It yielded him a scowl from the Professor, which made Draco laugh.

After Snape told him not to make a single sound as he carefully stirred the Potion seven times clockwise and thirty-one times counter-clockwise – Draco was counting along – he put everything down and suddenly locked eyes with Draco with such intensity that he forgot to look away.

‘Before we do this,’ said Snape, ‘you need to be fully aware of what you are doing. If you are planning on actually using this object –’

‘I’ll use it on a ring, sir.’

‘Right…’ Snape stretched the word as if he was pondering something. ‘Sit down for a moment, Mister Malfoy.’

Draco frowned, pushing himself up to dangle his legs down instead of sitting on them.

Snape pulled up a stool too. ‘Listen to me, Draco, if you play with things like these – well, it would be… prudent to prepare yourself for the very real possibility… that, at some point, your – ring _…_ stops beating.’

Draco blinked up at him, letting the words sink in. ‘No way, is that what happened to yours, sir?’

Snape shot him an exhausted look. ‘Just… head my words, Mister Malfoy. Consider the option before wearing it.’

Draco thought about it. He wondered if this meant that Snape wanted him not to wear it in case Harry died. That seemed rather silly to him. He nodded.

‘Are you sure you want us to continue? We can still turn it into something else at this point.’

‘I want to finish it, Professor.’

Snape nodded solemnly and got up. ‘Cut the Hawthorne berries, then the Motherwort and the Turmeric. Don’t let them touch, use different knives for each.’

It was almost time for dinner when the Potion was finally finished.

‘Get your ring ready to be immerged,’ Snape said. Draco pried the Malfoy signet ring from his thumb, and Snape raised his eyebrows. ‘Your father’s heirloom–’

‘It’s mine now, sir,’ Draco interrupted. ‘I’m the Malfoy heir, you see, sir.’

Snape leaned his hands on the table. ‘Mister Malfoy, _surely_ your father will–’

Draco flicked the ring into the cauldron. For a second, he thought Snape was going to explode, but then his Professor inhaled sharply and uttered through clenched teeth, ‘You do realise that if your father were to find out about this, he would get me fired on the spot?’

Draco stared into the cauldron. ‘Then we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t find out, won’t we, Professor?’

‘I do not appreciate you talking to me like that, Draco,’ Snape snarled. ‘I sincerely hope _you_ will be the one making sure he doesn’t find out.’

Scowling, Draco crossed his arms. Of the two of them, Draco reckoned he was surely the one who had the most to lose here. He didn’t tell his professor that. He’d already crossed several lines this hour.

After a loaded silence, Snape cleaned the desk with a flick of his wand. ‘The ring will be ready in fifteen minutes.’

While Professor Snape tidied up the rest of the Dungeon and started grading essays, Draco waited. Restless within a minute, he took out _A Walk With A Vampire_ , trying to read, but in reality reliving a particularly happy hour he had spent down by the lake with Harry at lunch-time.

Fifteen minutes later, Snape arranged his essays and got up. Summoning a ladle, he fished the ring out of the potion and Draco sat up straight in anticipation. When Snape closed his fingers around the ring, a satisfied smirk crossed his face.

Draco jumped up. ‘Does it work, Professor?’

Without a word, Snape handed him the ring. As Draco put it around his thumb, he felt a calm pulse coming from it. The gold throbbed like it had a tiny heartbeat. He had to sit down. ‘Amazing, sir…’ He took it off to hold the ring between his hands, closing his eyes for a second. Harry Potter’s heart was beating steadily in the palm of Draco’s hand. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he softly said, looking up at his Professor with unconcealed gratitude.

. . .

‘Darling,’ Pansy hissed over Draco’s shoulder, ‘better stretch your legs somewhere private for a bit.’

Frowning, Draco looked round at her, but she simply winked, mouthing, ‘Trust me,’ and fell back into step with her gang of Slytherin girls.

Tapping his forehead at Vincent and Gregory, Draco continued doing his homework at a table in the library that they’d been occupying for over an hour now. It was the best table – the one in the corner out of everyone’s way – and they should not give it up just for a walk.

Still, it couldn’t hurt to stretch his legs for a bit. Ordering his friends to stay put no matter what, Draco grabbed his Arithmancy book – because he had a _lot_ of work to do – and decided to take a turn about the Library.

As soon as he rounded the corner of a secluded section of bookcases, he heard hurried footsteps. A foot around his ankle made him lose his balance; arms caught him, but only to make him turn and cushion his fall. With a groan like an old man, Draco dropped flat on his back on the Library’s disgusting carpet.

Laughing like the idiot he was, no less than Harry Potter fell sloppily on top of him. ‘Hey Dra,’ he whispered, grinning and planting his knees in Draco’s sides, and in between hiccups of laughter, he kissed Draco’s nose and mouth and hands until he had Draco gasping for breath.

‘I need to do my homework,’ Draco groaned, desperately clutching his book. ‘You illiterate bastard, get off me.’

Harry snorted. Burying his face in Draco’s neck, he grumbled, ‘Don’t call me a rat bastard.’

Smirking, Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and closed his eyes. The next half hour, instead of Arithmancy, Draco practiced French kissing. Harry wasn’t as naturally gifted with the skill as Draco’d expected from a celebrity – quite sloppy, in fact – but rapidly picked up on what Draco liked.

The library floor was hard beneath Draco’s back, but it didn’t matter, because Harry felt soft on top of him. Feeling entirely blissful, Draco ran his fingers through the tangled, black hair, and every now and then, he peeked through his closed eyes to take in the marvel that was Harry Potter. The boy was wearing Muggle short sleeves, as always, and lying on top of Draco with closed eyes, leaning on his forearms. With one of Harry’s mighty arms on each side of his face, Draco felt weak in every possible way. He traced his fingers along Harry’s shoulder blades. Drew letters on his back. _Je t’aime._

Potter rolled on his side to gaze at Draco, stroke the hair from his face or touch his nose or his lashes. When Potter was staring at him like that, Draco couldn’t even meet his eyes; he would certainly die of euphoria if he tried. So he shifted a little, got up on an elbow and cupped Potter’s face to kiss him some more. It was the weirdest thing how he didn’t get bored of something so idiotic as moving his lips against this specific boy’s ones. He would only let them go to quickly bite Harry’s nose, but got back to kissing immediately after. In return, Harry pulled away to bite Draco’s lip – and Draco’s eyes rolled back with delight. Before he could prevent it, even a moan escaped him. Thinking fast, he dramatically spread an arm and fell back on the stuffy library carpet, burying a hand in his hair. ‘You are killing me, Mister Potter.’

Harry’s grin did nothing to calm him. ‘Why? With this?’ And he all but chew on Draco’s bottom lip – further encouraged by Draco’s hands clutching his hair – until it started bleeding. ‘Oops… Sorry Dra, I –’

‘Don’t you dare apologise.’ Draco’s voice sounded feeble. He felt feeble.

Potter laughed like he’d won something. Then, he pressed a little kiss on the bleeding spot.

Suddenly, Draco heard a noise and shot up, thereby slamming his forehead into Harry’s. Muffling their cries, they glanced around, but there was no one to see. Still, it left Draco nervous. At any moment, other students might walk in on them.

So he quickly heaved himself up on his arms. ‘Enough, Potter… I have homework, you know.’

Harry pulled one of Draco’s arms away, making him lose his balance and fall back again. It made them both laugh.

Groaning, Draco untangled his legs from around Potter’s waist, threatening to kick him when the boy tried to stop him. Harry just kept on laughing. It made it hard for Draco to keep his grin down.

Standing up, he dusted himself off, looking down on Harry. ‘I need to study, Potter. You see, some of us have ambition.’

Harry leaned back on his hands, locking Draco’s legs between his. ‘Some of us have bravery.’ He reached out to pull at Draco’s hand, ignoring his derisive snort.

Picking up his Arithmancy book, Draco allowed himself to be hauled down. ‘Fine,’ he drawled leaning his arms on Potter’s shoulders to read. ‘Compromise.’ 

Harry made himself comfortable, and while Draco read, Harry kept pressing little kisses on the skin of his forehead, temples, cheeks, jaws, neck... Then he started slowly unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, as if it was the wrapper of a fragile piece of art.

When Draco got to a particularly difficult question, he put the book down to mull it over, but Potter seemed to see it as encouragement and wrapped his arms tightly around Draco’s waist, pressing their bodies together. 

An E was always 5, Draco reasoned while absentmindedly kissing Harry, but the T could mean 2 or 4 or 100… He ran the three different options in his mind. The first one meant a zeppelin would crash, which was oddly specific. The second one pointed to a tall, dark stranger, which was not specific enough. But the third…

‘Four hundred and twenty-three!’ Draco swiftly pulled loose from Harry’s arms to check the answer in his book, and Harry burst out laughing so suddenly that Draco jumped and buttoned up, nervously glancing around.

Potter didn’t seem concerned about being caught. He kept on laughing as he pulled Draco close again to gleefully kiss him over and over and to push him back to the floor again. He mastered the art so skilfully that Draco lost his mind entirely.

. . .

Too soon, classes started again, which meant getting dragged back in the rut of normality.

After brushing his teeth for the second time, Draco strolled through the stone wall out of the Slytherin Common Room. He never liked going out to breakfast with bad breath, but he hated the taste of breakfast in his mouth all morning too, so he compromised by brushing his teeth twice.

‘Boo.’

Draco screamed at the voice coming out of nowhere, then furiously pointed his wand in the direction of it. ‘Potter, I will hex you.’

Potter pressed a kiss on his cheek, and Draco fired a haphazard kissing charm, but Harry’s laughing face appeared somewhere else entirely.

‘Don’t laugh, you rat bastard,’ Draco snarled.

Potter turned serious, going from zero to a hundred in a second the way only he could. He curled his pinkies around Draco’s. ‘When are you off today?’

‘Same as you, dip, we’ve got Potions.’ Draco tamped down his smile as he put his forehead against Harry’s, eyes closed. Stupid idiot Potter…

‘You promised to show me the Dungeons,’ Harry reminded him.

Draco took a deep breathe, pulled away and walked off. ‘Promises are for the lower classes,’ he drawled, ‘but if our local celebrity gets a kick out of it, I suppose I have no choice but to obey. What’s next, Potter, want me to brush your hair? Carry you on my back between classes?’

‘Well, if you’re offering…’

Draco glared at him.

Grinning, Harry became invisible again, but he kept his pinkie around Draco’s all the way back to the Entrance Hall, while Draco howled like a wolf in the echoing corridors of the Dungeons and Harry chatted about werewolves as if he personally knew one.

. . .

That afternoon, Draco and Harry were in luck. Snape paired them up to make Alihotsy Draught.

‘Kid’s stuff,’ declared Draco as he joined Harry at the back of the Dungeon.

While Draco read the instructions, Potter shoved his stool as close to him as physically possible. He glanced around at the class and back at Draco, and whispered, ‘I dare you to kiss me.’

Smirking, Draco instantly planted a wet, sloppy kiss full on Harry’s mouth, not holding back in the slightest, and Harry backed away so fast he fell of his stool, manically looking around for witnesses.

The people at the table next to them looked down at Potter with worried expressions, but he managed to half-heartedly grin at them while Draco laughed scathingly.

Staring at him with wide eyes, his face bright red, Harry jumped up and pushed Draco. ‘Rat bastard.’

Draco leaned on Harry’s leg with his most seductive look. ‘Dare me again, Harry.’

Smiling and blushing, Harry pushed Draco away, hissing, ‘No! Not here.’ When Draco raised his eyebrows, Harry blinked and smiled. ‘ _Vernon_ , Dra.’

Draco’s overly disappointed sigh made Harry snigger. Smirking to himself, Draco got up to start filling their cauldron.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Potter fidgeting on his chair. Within minutes, the boy had gradually inched closer to Draco again. His heartrate was unnecessarily high against Draco’s thumb as he touched the Snitch-shaped cufflinks on Draco’s blouse; his nail trailed the seam of Draco’s pants; he hooked his finger behind Draco’s waistband and traced the bare skin of his hip. Something warm tingled down Draco’s spine, and he glanced down at Harry, who didn’t notice, because he was too busy checking out Draco’s butt.

‘For crying out loud, Potter, how can I work like this?’ hissed Draco.

Harry looked up at him, slowly blinking away the misty look in his eyes until it faded to a bashful smile. He backed away. ‘Sorry, Dra.’

Draco smirked. ‘Get it together, Potter…’

Harry’s face went red like never before. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

Draco checked to see if Snape was near, but their Professor was having a field day with Neville’s attempt at the Alihotsy Draught. He bent down to Harry, whispering, ‘What were you thinking about?’ 

Harry’s hair started growing in front of his flushed face. ‘Nothing. I – I’ll get more ingredients.’

‘Oooh, no no no no,’ Draco hauled him back, smirking. ‘Do not make me beg, Potter, I _will_ make a scene.’

The students on the row in front of them looked around curiously.

‘Shut up, Dra,’ Harry hissed, holding back laughter. Quickly glancing around, he sat down on top of the table so their heads were level. ‘Why are you like this?’

‘Spit it out,’ Draco ordered in his most authoritative voice. It worked: Harry started stammering unintelligibly. Draco could scarcely make out a word. ‘Swimming?’ he repeated.

Harry nodded, not looking at him. ‘I wondered… In the summer… You’d look – I mean… I-it w-would be nice… I suppose. That’s all.’

Now Draco was blushing. He had to sit back down for a second. Harry was practically picturing him naked in the middle of their Potions class. ‘Merlin… Go get the ingredients or something. _Mince,_ you are completely ruining my focus.’

Grinning stupidly, Potter did as he was told, and the rest of the hour they hardly spoke. Harry crossed his arms and made a point of looking away, while Draco focused with all his might on the Alihotsy Draught. It wasn’t his best work, but it had to do.

When he’d handed it in and returned to their table, Draco’s shoe slipped in a large puddle of muck. ‘Potter! Yuck, what did you do?!’

‘Oh no,’ Harry deadpanned. ‘I knocked over our cauldron.’

Draco quickly mirrored his expression, laughing on the inside. ‘Oh no, now we have to clean all this up. How terribly inconvenient…’

‘I forgot how to use my wand,’ said Harry, his hands helplessly in the air.

‘I forgot my wand altogether!’

Potter laughed.

‘Harry! You need a hand?’ interfered the Mudblood, popping up uninvited from way out of nowhere. 

‘No,’ said Harry quickly. ‘Er, Snape said he’ll give me a D if I don’t clean it myself.’

Granger huffed indignantly, and further down the Dungeon, Snape turned to raise an eyebrow at Draco, who just smirked and shrugged. 

‘You go ahead,’ Harry told his friends. ‘I’ll meet you guys later.’

And so Harry and Draco crawled under their table, surrounded by muck, to give their fellow students a head-start at leaving the Dungeons. It took a long time, but that didn’t matter, as it gave them a nice opportunity to release some of the built-up tension.

A knock came on the door. ‘Severus, do you have a moment? Madame Maxime –’

Snape cleared his throat. ‘Crimson and Clover.’

Draco rapidly peeked around the table and saw Snape nodding in their direction. The other students appeared to be gone.

Hands touched his back and he felt a little kiss in his neck. He shuddered, but forced himself to leave their private spot. With one swift spell, Draco cleared the floor.

‘Pfew,’ he loudly exclaimed as he resurfaced. ‘All cleaned up. Not thanks to _you_ , Scarhead. Useless _morceau de merde_ …’

‘Mister Malfoy,’ said McGonagall sharply, ‘watch your tongue if you don’t want to lose your house any points.’

A thump and a groan told them Harry’d hit his head as he got out from underneath the table. With a disdainful look, Draco fired an inconspicuous kissing charm, at which Harry beamed up at him, so Draco quickly shoved his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from doing anything that gave them both away. With a hint of sarcasm, he pretended to tip his hat at McGonagall and strolled out of the classroom.

Hurrying footsteps; arms around his neck; laughter in his ear. ‘You should have seen your face, Dra,’ Harry said. ‘Have you ever considered theatre school?’

‘Please, don’t be daft, _lionceau_ , that’s for, you know… boho’s,’ and that was putting it nicely. Harry felt nice against Draco’s shoulder. ‘I mean: my family would not approve of the lifestyle, you see.’

Harry snorted. ‘Right.’

Looking over his shoulder to see if no one was listening, Draco confessed, ‘My aunt is a boho, you know. Well, she was before– When she was younger, I mean.’

‘Really? What was boho about her?’

‘She used to draw all the time and wanted to go to acting school. My father said she could make people laugh with just a look on her face. She was gifted, he said.’

Harry seemed to pick up on the past tense. ‘What happened?’

Draco shrugged. ‘She changed, I suppose.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Well… Her parents burnt her sketchbooks, you see. They forced her to get a respectable marriage.’

Harry stopped dead in his tracks to stare at him; instant anger flared up in his eyes. ‘Burnt her sketchbooks?’

Draco shrugged, quietly adoring Potter’s temper. ‘Well, Mother said it was a rite of passage, you know, a maturing ritual.’

‘Did they burn your mother’s stuff too?’

Draco furrowed his brow. ‘Well, no, but…’

‘But your mother was already perfectly respectable,’ Harry said hotly, as if he himself had been personally victimized by Draco’s deceased grandparents time and time again.

Draco furtively looked at him. ‘I bet you wouldn’t be so offended if you knew who I’m talking about.’

‘Why? Who’re you talking about?’

Draco hesitated a second, then answered, ‘Bellatrix Lestrange. Prisoner of Azkaban. Prime confederate of the Dark Lord.’

Harry tensed up and looked away, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

Draco hated the tension between them. So he whistled – not a nice tune, but as shrill and off-key as he could, louder and louder until Harry told him to stop and tried to cover his mouth. Draco snapped his teeth at Harry’s hand to make him laugh; it worked.

Their hands found each other at the same time.

‘Well, here we are,’ said Draco when they turned a corner and reached a dead-end. He kicked the wall, just to have something to do.

‘What?’ said Harry, stopping in the middle of the corridor. ‘We are where?’

Draco smirked. ‘Well, you know… far enough for no one to hear us.’

Harry narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you up to, Dra?’

Draco turned his back to him, faced the top corner of the wall and shouted, ‘HEY!’ He took a breath. ‘AAAH!’

Harry cracked up. ‘What are you doing? Calm down, you tiny psycho.’

Draco grinned. ‘Try it.’

‘What, screaming at a wall?’

‘Yeah, do it.’

Potter looked incredulously. ‘Why?’

‘It’ll set you free.’

Harry scratched his messy head, frowning.

‘Think of something that pisses you off. So, well, anything, in your case,’ Draco jeered.

Harry shot him a look, but grabbed Draco’s hand and faced the wall too. Draco side-eyed him. He seemed to be concentrating and slowly, his face turned angry. He took a breath and yelled, a quick shout, like Draco had done. A small smile crossed his face, before he turned even more serious than usual – and then he truly started screaming.

Startled, Draco froze. Harry seemed to put all of his heart and soul into the exercise.

Then Draco joined him.

At first Draco’s screams were more out of happiness and bottled up love than anything, but soon enough he started thinking about all the troubles the two of them faced. The tournament, the suffocating Gryffindors, the mutual hatred between Draco’s family and Harry’s friends and the way everyone was trying to keep them apart. In the end, it was hard to say whose screams were the most heartfelt.

After a while they became hoarse and Draco started laughing when his voice broke. It got Harry out of his concentration too. Laughing, he turned to Draco, who pressed a quick kiss on his hand before Harry wrapped his arms around Draco’s neck to hug him tight. It made Draco feel weird, feel too much. The feelings startled him so that he took out his wand for a swift Trip Jinx –

Harry’s feet yanked out from underneath him and Draco quickly pulled away so he wouldn’t fall too, but – growling like a Blood-Sucking Bugbear – Potter shot up to bite Draco’s shins.

‘AUGH! You –’ Trying to get away, Draco lost his balance, tripped over Harry’s legs and hit the ground hard. Pain seared through his body as he sat up, moaning and rubbing his shin. ‘Ouch, Potter! You bit me!’

‘Yeah, because you tripped me!’

Harry seized him around the waist to pull him close and Draco couldn’t stop smiling. He wanted to inspect his leg, but Harry tightened his grasp so he couldn’t move, making Draco laugh. He leaned back against Harry’s chest in defeat.

‘Harry Potter bit me,’ he said, the smirk clear in his voice. ‘And that really hurt.’

Harry just laughed, burying his face in Draco’s neck. ‘Draco?’

‘Harry?’

‘Do you remember the Veela? At the World Cup.’

‘Yeah. Mortifying how they make people behave.’ Draco smirked. ‘My father’s weak for them, doesn’t go near any. He sat with his ears closed for half the match.’

Harry was silent for a long moment. Then he asked, ‘Do you have any? In your family, I mean?’

‘Potter!’ Draco laughed mockingly. ‘As if!’

‘What? It’s just, you have the same –’

‘No. Stop. I’m not asking _you_ if you descend from Pan either, am I?’

‘Who’s Pan?’

Draco groaned. ‘Oh, you know nothing…’

‘I know Peter Pan,’ said Harry.

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ Draco sneered. ‘Hey, how about Wuthering Heights? Do you know Wuthering Heights?’

‘Er, is it in Scotland?’

Draco huffed. He wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck and hooked his chin on the tangling, black hair. Then he grabbed the excuse of Potter neither knowing the book nor the song Wuthering Heights to start singing, supposedly to himself, supposedly out of boredom.

‘Out on the wily, windy moors we'd roll and fall in green. You had a temper –’

‘ _You had a temper_ ,’ sang the Dungeons.

‘ – like my jealousy. Too hot, too greedy…’

‘ – _greedy, greedy_ …’

‘How could you leave me? When I needed to possess you. I hated you. l loved you, too.’ Draco leaned his head against the cold stone wall and listened to the echoes: ‘ _Loved you, too – loved you, too…’_

‘Bad dreams in the night,’ sang Draco, and the Dungeons chimed in, ‘ _Night, night, night, night…’_

‘They told me I was going to lose the fight… and leave behind my wuthering, wuthering, wuthering heights…’

They slouched against the wall for a long time, and Draco could feel Harry sigh.

He felt perfectly happy.

. . .

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon; the sun was out and so were most of the students. Draco roamed the grounds around the castle in search of Harry. He spotted him, accompanied by his usual Gryffindors. To draw him out, Draco fired a vicious Leg-Locker Curse.

It worked a little too well: in half a second, Potter had freed himself and was chasing after Draco, who hadn’t even turned around yet. Laughing, Draco almost tripped in his effort to get away. He bolted across the lawn, delighted to be moving after sitting in the castle for so long. Harry’s heavy footsteps sounded closer and closer as a massive spell made Draco land flat on the grass, beating the air out of his lungs. Harry, who couldn’t slow down in time, charged into him and with a loud yell, he tumbled over Draco with such force that he rolled over three times in one second. 

Draco couldn’t breathe from laughing. He felt Harry’s heartbeat racing in his ring and rolled over to see him. ‘ _Merde, dingo_ , you all right?’

Potter shot up, bent the frame of his glasses back into shape and ruffled through his hair to shake out most of the grass, leaves and twigs. He granted Draco a half-smile. ‘Course I am.’

Draco’d propped his chin on a hand to watch in awe. ‘You’ll be the death of me, Potter.’

Harry glanced around. They were largely shielded away from the other students by a big oak tree.

In the split second it took Draco to turn and sit up, Harry’d crossed the space between them to untuck Draco’s shirt and swiftly put his head underneath it, cracking Draco up so that he fell flat on his back again. It tickled, and he tried to push him away, but Potter was firmly holding onto him. 

‘Oh Harry – _nom d’une pipe,’_ Draco moaned as Harry kissed and bit his way around Draco’s waist, his hip bones and his belly. Then suddenly, he popped out again, eyes glistening, and pulled Draco’s legs around his waist. ‘Hey Dra, remember when those Veelas attacked the Leprechauns?’

Draco needed a second. Blinking away his arousal, he smirked, feeling entirely happy with Potter between his legs. He sat up straight. ‘Height of the game,’ he drawled hoarsely, still breathing rather heavily. He cleared his throat and shook his head. ‘Those Ministry dweebs failed miserably.’

Harry’s fingers played with the buttons on Draco’s shirt, but his sparkling eyes were fixed on Draco’s. ‘And Krum’s face when they all entered the Top Box? Do you remember that?’

Smiling, Draco nodded. ‘It was awesome.’ He pulled Harry close with a finger under his chin. ‘And do _you_ remember that monumental diversion Krum did?’

‘The one that ploughed Lynch?’ Harry grinned. ‘The Wronski Defensive Feint?’

Draco shrieked with glee. Potter knew the correct nomenclature! ‘Yes!’ Smirking maliciously, he rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m going to use it on you some time, you know. Prepare to be ploughed, Potter.’

‘Bring it.’

Draco pulled away as Harry snapped at his nose like a puppy. ‘Oh, I will.’

Harry lowered his voice. ‘I think it was the best night of my life.’

‘Krum was such a mess.’

‘Covered in blood like he’d slain a dragon.’ Harry laughed. ‘Hermione looked so worried.’

‘Oh right, you’d know all about slaying dragons now, don’t you, Mister Champion?’

Harry dropped his eyes with a bashful smile. ‘I didn’t _slay_ any. I only…’

‘Survived one,’ Draco drawled.

Harry squinted, a smirk playing around his lips. ‘Were you worried?’

Draco glared at him. ‘Oh hey, let’s talk about the World Cup again.’ Harry laughed, but was quickly distracted when Draco asked, ‘I still don’t understand why Krum caught the Snitch when it meant they’d lose.’

‘Me neither. Did you see that dive though?’ Draco gestured wildly to re-enact the moment, while Harry raved on, ‘I’ve never seen anyone dive like that! He seemed to be weightless, as –’

‘As if he didn’t use a broom at all!’ Draco added excitedly.

‘Yes!’ Harry moaned. ‘I wish I flew like that.’

‘You know, we did that Porskoff Ploy _too_ ,’ Draco said smugly. ‘Well, Pucey and Flint did, remember? When –’

‘Oh, I know,’ Harry said grimly, but the light was still in his eyes. ‘Wood made us analyse it for hours so we would never fall for it again.’

‘He did?!’ Draco laughed loudly. ‘I’m going to tell Flint, he’ll love that!’

‘Troy and Moran did it better though,’ Harry taunted.

Draco was over the moon: Harry remembered every detail of the match, just like Draco! He leant onto his homeboy’s knee. ‘That moment changed my life; I rewatched it on loop for an hour straight, it looked so effortless – I dreamt about it!’

Harry laughed with his eyes closed; it was Draco’s favourite, he only ever laughed like that when he was truly carefree. Taking advantage of that moment of weakness, Draco jumped on him like a fox, so Harry toppled on his back and got covered in kisses before he could open his eyes or catch his breath. He didn’t seem to mind. In one swift move, Draco pulled off Harry’s shirt. He’d planned to go a lot further, until he remembered they were still in a public place.

With a heavily disgruntled sigh, he sat up on Harry’s belly the way explorers posed for pictures on newly discovered land. Now that he thought of it, Draco really ought to plant a flag on Potter. 

Their fingers intertwined and Draco pulled Harry upright again, shoving back to the boy’s lap. A streak of dark hair ran from Harry’s belly button down to beneath his waistband. Draco wanted to trail his fingers all the way –

‘I dreamt about Krum’s dive,’ Harry said in between playful kisses.

Draco tried to ground himself, focussing with all his might on the words instead of the body.

‘That it was me with the broken nose, taking over Lynch who was miles ahead of me, with my blood flying behind me… It looked wicked.’ Harry nuzzled Draco’s nose. ‘We’re gonna get there, Dra. We’ll just keep practising and one day it might be us flying in that stadium.’

‘Well,’ Draco drawled, ignoring the hands on his skin or the skin under his hands, ‘we’re just gonna have to see more matches then.’

Harry agreed. ‘For observation.’

‘Yes, training material,’ Draco jeered. ‘Purely educational, you see.’

They grinned. Draco played with the little hairs on Harry’s stomach, his mind going off on a trip of its own.

Harry leaned back. ‘What are you thinking, Dra?’

Draco woke up and squinted. ‘Do you actually know a werewolf?’ he blurted out.

‘Well, Professor Lupin,’ said Harry with a small shrug. ‘Snape told the Slytherins about him, right?’

‘Yeah, I know about him, but you don’t _know_ him, right? I mean –’

‘He was my dad’s friend,’ Harry said, scratching his armpit and following a bird’s flight with his eyes. ‘He taught me how to do a Patronus. And he’s pretty close to my godfather. We write sometimes.’

Draco gaped at him. ‘You have a godfather?’

‘Well, yeah…’ Harry looked Draco up and down. ‘But I can’t tell you anything about him.’

It made Draco laugh. Harry looked terribly sincere about it. ‘A werewolf friend and a secret godfather… What’s next, your grandfather’s a vampire?’

Harry’s eyes sparkled. ‘Well no, not my grandpa.’

Draco would’ve fallen off Harry’s lap in surprise if Harry hadn’t held him so tight. ‘ _Pas vrai_. You actually know a vampire?’

‘Of course.’ Harry grinned. ‘There’s one sitting on my lap right now.’

Draco felt ridiculously happy and cupped Harry’s face for a kiss. ‘ _Je suis si fou de toi._ ’

Harry pulled away to no doubt hit Draco around the head with some marvellous Parseltongue, when he suddenly seemed distracted – by Draco’s crisp, white shirt.

‘Oh no,’ Draco squealed, sliding off Potter’s lap, ‘do I have a grass stain?’

‘Well… no,’ said Harry with a quizzical expression. ‘But I’d like to do a little experiment… It involves –’ He flew up and grabbed Draco’s ankles. ‘THROWING YOU IN THE LAKE!’

Draco’s screams sent Vincent and Gregory running, and if it weren’t for Draco’s rapid Shield charm, Harry would’ve no doubt ended up in St. Mungo’s.

. . .

On one of the first mornings in February, Ulysses dropped a red envelope on the Slytherin breakfast table, landing next to Draco’s orange juice.

‘Is that –?’

Smoke started curling up from the edges.

‘Open it, OPEN IT!’ screamed Pansy at the top of her lungs, her voice breaking, before Draco could even process what was happening. ‘NOW!’

His fingers trembling with panic, Draco struggled to obey, so Vincent dived across the table and tore the entire envelope in half. For a moment, Draco thought it had exploded; a roar of sound filled his ears, making the table tremble.

‘A most remarkable rumour has reached our ears,’ boomed Draco’s father’s voice as Draco cowered, ducking his head under his arms. Still, it wasn’t half as bad as Weasley’s Howler had been. ‘Some of our friends made it sound like you have been – against my wishes – getting closer to a certain – ah – someone…’

The words pounded into Draco’s head, like a heavy bass. He wanted to hide under the table.

‘It makes me wonder, Draco, did we not make ourselves _perfectly_ _clear_? About who to befriend and – in particular – who to avoid? _Did I stutter_ ,’ the voice grew steadily louder, ‘when I _specifically_ told you _not_ to _even mention_ this person’s name? WAS I UNCLEAR?!’

For a short moment, Draco thought his father had finished, but then –

‘Tell me, Draco.’ Father had merely gathered himself. ‘Did I raise my _only son_ to _blatantly_ disobey his _own father’s_ orders? Did I not _pay_ for _everything_ you _ever_ asked for? Did I not! _Encourage!_ Your _every_ _interest_?! Well?!’ Deep breath – ‘THEN HOW?! WAS IT THAT HARD?! TO MIND! MY ONE! REQUEST?! ONE – SIMPLE – REQUEST!’

Draco squeezed his eyes closed against his father’s voice, ten times louder than usual, that was making his eardrums throb and shaking dust from the ceiling.

‘IF YOU THINK YOUR MOTHER AND I WILL _STAND AND WATCH_ , DRACONIUS LUCIUS MALFOY, AS YOU SQUANDER! AND PRODIGALIZE! ALL OF OUR GIFTS! TO STRUT ABOUT! WITH THAT BLOOD-TRAITOR, MUGGLE-LOVING, ELF-STEALING SCUM OF THE EARTH! YOU – MY BOY – ARE SORELY – _SORELY_ MISTAKEN!’

A ringing silence followed, but Draco knew better this time than to hope it was over. He covered his glowing ears with his hands, wishing he could evaporate on the spot.

‘If I hear,’ his father continued in a lower, yet somehow infinitely more frightening voice, ‘ _one more word_ about my _only son_ associating with _Dumbledore’s favourite pet_ …’ Draco could almost hear the gnashing of his father’s teeth. ‘I will _personally_ come to collect you from that _wasteful_ excuse of a school and send you _straight_ to Durmstrang where they will teach you _proper_ _respect and_ _obedience_!’ Father took an almighty breath. ‘WAS THAT UNAMBIGUOUS ENOUGH?!’ 

Draco fell off his chair.

Finally, his father’s voice dropped to a business-like tone: ‘We will expect a letter at your earliest convenience in which you explain your actions, or I will be forced to come over there and ask you in person. _Compris_?’ 

Pulling at his hair, Draco nodded ferociously at the letter. The red envelope burst into flames and curled into ashes, and Draco felt like crying from fear and shame. Father’d never been so angry with him before, let alone in public.

Vincent and Gregory lifted him back to his feet and filled up his plate with their favourite sweets, while Draco sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over him. A hush had fallen over the Slytherin table. Some people laughed, but most of them seemed as staggered as Draco felt.

‘He knows,’ he hissed in a blind panic. ‘How did they find out?’

Crabbe and Goyle didn’t answer. Gregory’s face contorted in confusion as he put an extra raspberry donut on Draco’s plate. ‘Here.’

‘A letter,’ Draco muttered, remembering the last thing his father had said. He had to get it together to write them back. ‘What do I even write? Do they – Should I –’ He felt like crying. ‘Oh Merlin, I don’t want to break up with him.’ While muttering to himself, he’d been trying to get a quill and parchment out of his bag, but his shaking hands were making it hard. Frustrated, he yanked at the bag and almost tore the parchment apart, but finally, he got it out. ‘What do I say? What do I say?’

‘Attack is the best defence!’ Pansy plopped down next to him, wriggling herself between Crabbe and Draco. ‘Take the Malfoy-road; say something like… needlessly flashy. Vulgar! Disrespectful and embarrassing you in front of your peers. Oh! Oh, and about them being “tragically susceptible to gossip” – mom always tells me I am. Yes: tra-gic-ally sus-cep-ti-ble. Alright, and write something like “I can only _hazard_ _a_ _guess_ who you are talking about,” because it sounds fun. And… er… oh, and, and “I assure you I – I…”’ Pansy chewed on her lip, thinking hard. ‘”I would not shed a _tear_ to see my _useless_ Potions partner go.”’ She laughed.

‘That is a lie,’ Draco squeaked, eyes big with panic while writing furiously along with her. ‘They will find out it is.’

‘Let them bring it, I will beat them up. What are you writing now?’

While he made up some stuff of his own, Draco slowly read aloud, ‘”You are absolutely right. The boy positively drags me down in Potions and it is high time I demand from Professor Snape to stop pairing me up with the fool. I will do so promptly.”’ Draco dipped his quill in the ink. ‘”However,”’ he wrote, straightening his back now. ‘”I will not apologise for falling victim to rumours. Your wild allegations are founded upon nothing but absolute falsehoods.’ Draco actually started to smirk as he wrote the next line. ‘I… did not have… extracurricular social intercourse with Harry J. Potter.’

Pansy shrieked with laughter. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘It actually pains me to find out how little you think of me,’ Draco went on undisturbed, ‘and on top of that I am ashamed and disappointed how easily you fell for the slander of the – the…’ He furrowed his brow, then shouted across the table, ‘A fancy word for riff-raff, anyone?!’

‘Scum!’ said Flint, the simpleton.

‘Rabble,’ offered one of the prefects.

Draco shook his head. ‘Fancier!’

‘ _Hoi polloi_ ,’ declared a seventh-year girl with a flourish.

Draco’s mouth fell open.

‘It’s Greek,’ she added.

‘“The lies of the Hoi Polloi,”’ Draco wrote, smirking smugly. ‘Ah, they will _feast_.’ He manically scribbled on, getting in the flow now: ‘A Malfoy will always be slandered… dragged through the mud and humiliated – but we spring back… like punching bags.’

Pansy whooped.

‘Needless to say,’ he concluded the letter, ‘I will not tolerate any more Howlers at my breakfast table… Love forever and -ever, your strictly obedient, well-bred son.’ Draco crossly underlined “strictly obedient”, folded the parchment and sent Ulysses back to the Manor. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ he whispered to Pansy, ‘I need to _strut around_ with a certain _pet,_ who’s in desperate need of my _respect_ and _obedience_.’

Without further ado, and under shrieks of laughter from his friend, he swaggered out, whistling across the Great Hall to beckon his homeboy.

Draco Malfoy would never obey. He was obeyed.

. . .

Until he wasn’t anymore.

It had been a week since Draco had last met Harry in private. A full week. When he watched him cross the courtyard, green eyes fixated on that rotten golden egg, Draco hurt in places he didn’t know the name of.

‘Hey!’ Pansy shouted, and Draco jumped.

Draco, Crabbe and Goyle had moved from the library to the chilly courtyard to get some fresh air, where they were quickly joined by Pansy and her friends. Now, all of them had gone to get food or extra clothes, leaving only Pansy and Draco. 

‘Spit it out!’ she snapped.

Spitting anything out to his banshee of a friend did not come naturally to Draco, let alone spitting out the incredible hurt he felt. He didn’t want to spit out his petty worries at all, to nobody.

Nimbostratus climbed on Draco’s lap to be petted. It helped a little, but Draco still worried.

With a short grunt, Pansy changed tactics. She stroked Draco’s cheek and chin, pouting a little. ‘Aw, baby… I’m your best friend in this whole wide, rotten world. You can tell me, darling. You can tell me anything, I would never judge, you know. Trust me. Trusssst me…’

‘He’s avoiding me,’ Draco blurted out, lowering his gaze.

Pansy dropped her act like a stone. ‘He is not, you blithering fool. It has nothing to do with you. You _know_ how busy he is with that darn tournament. He’s carrying that egg around everywhere he goes, trying to figure out what to do. Myrtle says he even takes it with him in the bath. Give him some space. You of all people know he could die if he doesn’t prepare well.’

Draco looked suspiciously at her. ‘Since when are you so sensible?’

‘Since I want you to focus on my homework.’ She tapped her wand on the parchment. ‘Spit-spot, it won’t write itself.’

Even while calculating their Arithmancy homework, Draco still had enough mind space left to worry about Harry. ‘Do _you_ want me to stop seeing him?’

Pansy sighed dramatically. ‘Draconius, _please_. I have no hidden agenda. I _know_ everyone else has, but I –’

‘What?’ Draco shifted on the cold stone wall they were sitting on to face her. ‘Other than my father? Are you serious? Are people working against us?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far… But… you know…’

‘I don’t.’

‘Oh come on, Draco, it’s made perfectly clear that you two…’ Pansy’s voice trailed off and she didn’t seem intent on picking it up again. She made a show of staring at her textbook.

‘What?’ snapped Draco, pushing away the cat, who meowed loudly and ran off.

Pansy huffed like he’d offended her, then shrugged. ‘Well, our families are against it, for starters. And, well, you know you and your family have a reputation. Your family does, mine, Crabbe’s, Goyle’s. Nobody likes seeing their Wonderboy straying from the light. None more so than our great friend Dumbledore. You know, I wouldn’t even be surprised if _he_ put Potter’s name in the Goblet of Fire, just so Potter would be too occupied with not dying to grow closer to you. Everyone could see it happening.’

‘ _Ça me fais chier,_ ’ Draco lashed out from the bottom of his heart. ‘So, to recap,’ he snarled, counting along on his fingers. ‘Flint and Wood don’t want us to play Quidditch together. Snape doesn’t want us to work together. Harry’s dumb friends are convinced I’ll _hurt_ him – like I would ever – and my parents can’t even say his name.’ Scowling, Draco crossed his arms. He felt miserable.

‘Snape doesn’t want you to work together?’ Pansy asked. ‘Since when?’

‘Remember I wrote my parents that Snape paired me with Harry in Potions? Snape told me my father summoned him at the Manor to inquire why he’d been pairing me in the first place, and to demand he’d stop at once.’

Pansy’s chin dropped. ‘For real? Merlin! Your father is so strict!’

Draco sulked. ‘Yeah, well, he wants me to be the best I can be.’

Pansy seemed to choose her words carefully. ‘And that won’t involve Harry Potter?’

A scornful sound escaped him. He wrapped his arms around himself. ‘Can’t make heirs with a boy, now, can I? And this boy won’t even do well at parties either. I mean, he makes enemies where ever he goes with that incredible temper of his, and the friends he makes are the dregs of society, every single one of them. I mean, would you just look at the guy? He’s not even clean.’ Draco miserably motioned at Potter, who was shaking the golden egg now and putting it to his ear to listen, looking adorable while at it. His friends were packing up to leave and Harry followed them without even looking away from the egg. The frown on his face seemed to be stuck there permanently.

‘He’s forgetting me.’

Pansy leaned over their books to press a kiss on his head, but she didn’t reply. Not to deny his claims either, Draco noted.

‘Maybe I should find someone else,’ he mused. ‘Like… a girl.’

Pansy smirked. ‘Yeah, plenty of fish in the sea.’

Glancing around, Draco’s eye fell on a girl walking past with a butterfly net. He started smirking. ‘You know, I always fancied Lovegood.’

Instantly, he got himself smacked around the head. ‘I will murder you in your sleep,’ Pansy grumbled through clenched teeth. ‘I swear to Merlin, Draconius, if you come _near_ her – I know twelve different ways to kill and get away with it – do _not_ test me!’

Draco smirked. ‘Liar. Well, go and claim her then… before Longbottom swoops her up.’

The last thing he had expected was for Pansy to pick up her chin, jump up and march off – straight at Loony.

Baffled, Draco watched as Pansy started talking to her. She made it seem so easy. Loony just talked back; they had a conversation. Loony handed Pansy the net. They _smiled_.

Scowling, Draco slapped the dirt from his trousers and went off in search of Harry.

It was easy enough to find him these days; he and his friends were practically living in the library. The only things Granger knew came from books, and apparently she had free reign in their friend group. The three of them sat huddled around a pile of books on a small desk. The golden egg sat on Harry’s lap, one of his arms protectively around it. 

Even though Draco walked up to them in full sight, Harry didn’t notice him coming. His eyes were glued at his book.

‘Hey,’ Draco said, stopping in front of him.

Slowly, Harry looked up. It took a full three seconds, Draco counted. As Potter’s eyes fixed on Draco and recognition slowly settled in, the lines in his forehead vanished and he showed Draco a smile – an exhausted smile, but a smile nonetheless.

‘Hey Dra,’ he said – and that was it. His gaze seemed to fade already, as if Draco was see-through and behind him were all the answers Harry needed, in very small print.

Needless to say, the conversation did not go as easy as Pansy’d made it seem.

‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Draco, feeling the harsh eyes of Weasley and Granger on him.

Harry bit his lip and pushed his glasses higher up his nose. His eyes shot to his friends.

Draco felt humiliated, openly standing there in the middle of the library, feeling dozens of eyes pricking in his back. It was quiet enough for everyone to have heard him.

And Harry didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to. 

For a second, Draco wondered if he should sit down and talk to him, but then the whole school would hear them. Could he whisper real quiet?

He scowled. The real question was: would there be any point?

‘ _Je t’emmerde_ , Potter. _’_ Hands in his pockets, Draco strolled out of the library.

. . .

‘Come on, Malfoy,’ grunted Vincent, pulling Draco back down when he got up from their place by the fire.

‘Yeah, don’t be annoying,’ added Gregory.

Draco wasn’t aware that he was being annoying.

‘Just play Exploding Snap with us,’ Gregory whined, putting the box on the coffee table they were sitting around. ‘We don’t want to follow stupid Potter anymore.’

‘I want to punch him,’ growled Vincent.

Draco glared at the two of them. Was there even a single person left to support him and Harry? He looked over at Pansy sitting opposite them on the floor, who was decorating her diary with moving, glittery pictures of the Ballycastle Bats’ Chaser, Rob The Hearth, also known as The Hearth Rob. The guy liked to wear eyeliner and black nail polish; combined with their Quidditch uniform – black with a scarlet bat logo – and a killer smile, he was not someone Pansy could ignore. The man also happened to be a terrific Chaser, but that seemed to be of secondary importance to her. Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him, Pansy’d rapidly become obsessed with Quidditch, and was especially well-informed about all the qualities a Chaser should have – which happened to be all the qualities of The Hearth Rob, coincidentally.

‘Is there a problem?’ she inquired with an absent smirk.

‘Do you want to go to the library with me?’

Her head shot up. ‘Oh no, Malfoy, come on! The guy left you hanging! He might be busy, but that’s no excuse! Either you make him talk to you or you let him go. I will not support stalking him.’

Sulking, Draco crossed his arms. ‘I tried talking to him. He doesn’t want to.’

‘I _really_ want to punch him,’ Vincent reminded everyone.

‘Forget him,’ she said, shoving a glitter picture towards him. ‘Here, look at Robbie, he’s good for the soul.’

Draco could easily imagine hearts flying out of her eyes. She was positively swooning. ‘What about Loony, then?’ he snarled.

‘I have a big heart.’ Pansy smiled.

Draco couldn’t stand her happiness. He stalked back to their dorm to slam a door and drown his sorrows with _Rocket to Russia_ on top volume.

. . .

Draco’s parents had given him the silent treatment ever since his snarky reply on their Howler. Draco hated it, and not just because he didn’t get any candy. He missed the updates on what was going on at home; he missed feeling loved and cared for; he worried about his mum, he wanted her to be happy. Without their letters, it felt like a part of himself was missing.

Then one morning, Ulysses landed on his shoulder as if he’d never stopped doing it. It startled Draco so that a sausage slipped from his fork, flew across the table and landed in Flint’s lap; who looked so murderous that Draco quickly made a show of looking the other way. Taking the letter from the owl’s claw, he recognized his mother’s handwriting at once. He slouched in relief. 

‘This is one for the scrapbooks,’ Mother wrote, and underneath it, in the handwriting of Draco’s father, it said, ‘Perhaps we will get justice at last.’

Attached to the letter, Draco found a newspaper clipping about Rubeus Hagrid. He remembered a journalist asking questions about their Professor during spring break. Scanning the text, he found his name, and he eagerly started reading, smiling already.

“DUMBLEDORE’S GIANT MISTAKE

Albus Dumbledore, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has never been afraid to make controversial staff appointments, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. In September of this year, he hired Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the notoriously jinx-happy ex-Auror, to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, a decision that caused many raised eyebrows at the Ministry of Magic, given Moody’s well-known habit of attacking anybody who makes a sudden movement in his presence.”

This was already good, Draco thought, wreck the man, Rita.

“Mad-Eye Moody, however, looks responsible and kindly when set beside the part-human Dumbledore employs to teach Care of Magical Creatures.

Rubeus Hagrid, who admits to being expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, has enjoyed the position of gamekeeper at the school ever since, a job secured for him by Dumbledore. Last year, however, Hagrid used his mysterious influence over the headmaster to secure the additional post of Care of Magical Creatures teacher, over the heads of many better-qualified candidates.

An alarmingly large and ferocious-looking man, Hagrid has been using his newfound authority to terrify the students in his care with a succession of horrific creatures. While Dumbledore turns a blind eye, Hagrid has maimed several pupils during a series of lessons that many admit to being “very frightening.”

‘I was attacked by a hippogriff, and my friend Vincent Crabbe got a bad bite off a flobberworm,’ says Draco Malfoy, a fourth-year student. ‘We all hate Hagrid, but we’re just too scared to say anything.’”

His own words cracked Draco up. A bad bite of a flobberworm, he couldn’t even remember saying that.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Vincent.

Draco looked up to see a lot of his house mates watching him. Theatrically clearing his throat, he repeated the first part to them, and followed up with the rest of the article:

“As if this were not enough, the Daily Prophet has now unearthed evidence that Hagrid is not – as he has always pretended – a pure-blood wizard. He is not, in fact, even pure human. His mother, we can exclusively reveal, is none other than the giantess Fridwulfa, whose whereabouts are currently unknown.

Bloodthirsty and brutal, the giants brought themselves to the point of extinction by warring amongst themselves during the last century. The handful that remained joined the ranks of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and were responsible for some of the worst mass Muggle killings of his reign of terror. If his antics during Care of Magical Creatures lessons are any guide, however, Fridwulfa’s son appears to have inherited her brutal nature.

In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed a close friendship with the boy who brought around You-Know-Who’s –”

Draco’s voice trailed off. ‘Oh… This is about Harry.’ How dare that trollop involve him in this?

The laughter of his house mates died away as Draco read the rest of the article in silence, frowning.

“In a bizarre twist, Hagrid is reputed to have developed a close friendship with the boy who brought around You-Know-Who’s fall from power – thereby driving Hagrid’s own mother, like the rest of You-Know-Who’s supporters, into hiding. Perhaps Harry Potter is unaware of the unpleasant truth about his large friend – but Albus Dumbledore surely has a duty to ensure that Harry Potter, along with his fellow students, is warned about the dangers of associating with part-giants.”

‘Well, that’s true,’ he grumbled and continued to read it to the others as well.

‘Heir, heir!’ said one of the Prefects.

‘Yeah, where’s the lie?’ said Pansy, quirking an eyebrow.

‘Let’s hope he will finally stop hanging out with the fat oaf from now on,’ Draco muttered darkly to Crabbe and Goyle. He looked over at the Gryffindor table, where Harry was stuffing himself with toast and scrambled eggs. Clearly, he hadn’t read this yet, or he wouldn’t be looking so content.

‘And join Slytherin,’ Pansy jeered. ‘Right?’

Draco smugly added, ‘And finally _come home_.’

The clipping was still in his pocket when they arrived at their next Care of Magical Creatures class. Hagrid wasn’t there. Instead, Professor Grubbly-Plank, their replacement teacher, stood in front of the group.

‘Where’s Hagrid?’ asked Harry loudly. His eyes kept shifting to the hut, where all the curtains were closed.

‘He is indisposed,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank.

Draco laughed softly. Harry turned around, squinting his eyes at him, but as usual, he seemed too proud to ask what Draco knew. He could be terribly stubborn, bordering at arrogant. Just ask me, Draco wanted to beg, _talk to me_.

‘This way, please,’ said Professor Grubbly-Plank, and she strode off around the paddock where the Beauxbatons horses were shivering.

The class followed her, but Harry kept looking back over his shoulder at Hagrid’s cabin. His growing anger was almost tangible. ‘What’s wrong with Hagrid?’ he pressed on, hurrying to catch up with their professor.

‘Never you mind,’ she said.

‘I do mind, though,’ said Harry hotly, and Draco wanted to hug him. ‘What’s up with him?’

Cold fingers around his hand made Draco jump. ‘You’re drooling,’ said Pansy.

He pushed her away, heat rushing to his face. ‘Shut up.’

Of course he was bloody drooling. Harry’s eyes were gleaming with fire, the heat he radiated could almost fog up his glasses.

‘He’s such a pain in the ass,’ Draco drawled, like a liar. ‘Obsessive as always.’

Professor Grubbly-Plank led them past the paddock where the huge Beauxbatons horses were standing, huddled against the cold, and toward a tree on the edge of the forest, where a large and beautiful unicorn was tethered. Many of the girls ‘ooooohed!’ at the sight of the unicorn.

‘Oh it’s so beautiful!’ whispered Lavender Brown.

Pansy glared at her in disgust, as if Brown betrayed their entire gender by being excited about a unicorn.

‘How did she get it?’ Brown raved on. ‘They’re supposed to be really hard to catch!’

Draco huffed and looked smugly around at his friends. ‘They’re nothing special, really. Me and Potter saw one in first year, you see, before we even had this class.’

It was his favourite thing to say, “Me and Potter”. If he hadn’t been a Malfoy, he’d definitely have shortened it to “Me-n-Potter”, as if it was just one word; as if the two of them were a package deal.

The unicorn was so brightly white it made the snow all around look grey. It was pawing the ground nervously with its golden hooves and throwing back its horned head.

‘Boys keep back!’ barked Professor Grubbly-Plank, throwing out an arm and catching Harry hard in the chest.

Furious, Draco inched forward, but Harry already rolled back his shoulders, glaring at the woman like he was picturing the perfect jinx for her. The only reason he didn’t murder their teacher on the spot was the Mudblood pulling him away.

Draco felt himself smiling. Potter had such disregard for hierarchy, it was one of Draco’s many favourite things about him. Draco randomly remembered Harry mentioning once, in a throw-away line, how he’d asked the actual Minister of Magic to sign his Hogsmeade permission form. It had cracked Draco up for minutes, only made worse by the fact that Harry genuinely didn’t understand what he was laughing about.

‘They prefer the woman’s touch, unicorns,’ the Professor explained. ‘Girls to the front, and approach with care, come on, easy does it.…’

She and the girls walked slowly forward toward the unicorn, leaving the boys standing near the paddock fence, watching.

The moment Professor Grubbly-Plank was out of earshot, Harry turned to the Weasel. ‘What d’you reckon is wrong with him? You don’t think a skrewt–?’

‘Oh, he hasn’t been attacked, Potter, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ Draco couldn’t help but butt in.

Harry swirled around, and he smiled. ‘Hey.’ 

Draco choose to ignore the face, for his own well-being. ‘No, he’s just too ashamed to show his big, ugly face.’

‘What d’you mean?’

Draco put his hand inside the pocket of his robes and pulled out the folded page of newsprint. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Hate to break it to you, Potter…’

He smirked as Harry snatched the page, unfolded and read it, with his Gryffindor buddies all looking over his shoulder.

After a while, Harry’s head shot up. ‘What d’you mean, “We all hate Hagrid”? What’s this rubbish about him’ – he pointed at Crabbe – ‘getting a bad bite off a flobberworm? They haven’t even got teeth!’

Crabbe was sniggering.

‘Well, I think this should put an end to the oaf’s teaching career,’ Draco drawled. ‘Half-giant… and there was me thinking he’d just swallowed a bottle of Skele-Gro when he was young… None of the mummies and daddies are going to like this at all… They’ll be worried he’ll eat their kids, ha, ha…’

‘You –’

‘Are you paying attention over there?’ Professor Grubbly-Plank’s voice carried over to the boys, so Draco strolled away, looking innocent. From a safe distance, he watched Harry stare at the unicorn like he wanted to set fire to it.

‘Happy now?’ said a low voice beside of him. It belonged to Zabini. ‘You have a weird way of showing fondness, Malfoy.’

Draco didn’t deem that remark worthy to reply, but as much as he hated it, he had to admit there was a certain truth to those words. From that moment on, he fell into a nasty habit of being mean.

‘Missing your half-breed pal?’ he kept whispering to Potter whenever there was a teacher around, so that he was safe from Harry’s retaliation. ‘Missing the elephant man?’

He made himself and his friends late for class by coming up with excuses to take detours through the castle, just so he could accidentally run into Harry to spite him. It drove everyone nuts, but Draco couldn’t help himself. He loved the thrill of getting a rise out of Potter.

‘Potter,’ he hissed in passing on a moving staircase. ‘We were just talking about your bloodthirsty friend. Is it true he went back to his mother? Is it true she forgot he was there and sat on him?’ He laughed derisively and heard Crabbe and Goyle guffaw behind him, but out of nowhere, Harry lost it.

He harshly grabbed Draco’s arm. ‘D’you realize I _like_ Hagrid?’ he said hotly. ‘And I will like him better than you if you keep this up.’

And with that, it suddenly stopped being funny. Potter might as well have pulled a knife for how much it hurt Draco. For a moment, Draco didn’t dare speak, afraid his voice would break.

Harry’s hand around his arm was going to leave bruises, he realized. A painful thought crossed his mind: at least he’d have something left of him.

As Harry let go, Draco drew a steadying breath. ‘Alright, _mate_ ,’ he managed. And that was that.

Harry Potter had successfully been turned against Draco Malfoy.

The worst thing about it was how easy it had been.

. . .

Draco pushed himself deeper into the chair by the fire, hugging Nimbostratus so tightly he probably wasn’t comfortable. ‘I don’t want to go.’

Pansy was yanking at his arm, putting her entire weight into it. ‘Yes, you do.’ When he glared at her, she sing-songy she added, ‘Don’t want to miss it when he dies!’

Draco pulled his arm loose. ‘Don’t TALK about him like that!’ The cat meowed in agreement.

‘Come on,’ Pansy begged. 

‘You know, I don’t _want_ to see him die.’

‘You can’t stay here, worrying, all by yourself.’

‘I have Nimbostratus,’ Draco sulked. ‘And I am not worrying. I’m catching up on my homework. This whole… _aberration_ has made me get behind on everything. I can’t believe–’

‘Draconius, _please_ stop whining. You know you always start using fancy words when you feel bad. It’s your _tell_.’

‘I do _not_ have a _tell_.’

She groaned. ‘Come on, it’ll be so boring without you. I’ll be stuck with Crabbe and Goyle and the girls, and you know how they are.’ To add onto her pleas, she fell on her knees.

‘Parkinson!’ Draco snapped, lowering his voice to a furious hiss. ‘Get up! You know what that dirtbag Warrington tells everyone about girls with bruises on their knees.’

Pansy didn’t even blink. ‘I’ll paint your nails.’

‘Girl, your tights,’ Draco snarled through gritted teeth, because Pansy was wearing the sheer tights with bats on them that Draco loved so much, but she still didn’t budge. He sighed in defeat, closing his eyes in frustration. ‘Well… what shade?’

Pansy grinned. ‘Name it.’

Lounging back in his chair, he drawled, ‘I want that shatter effect with the house colours.’

‘Done. Come on.’ Jumping up, she offered him her hand like she was asking a girl to dance in the 19th century.

Draco ignored her hand, slamming his book on the coffee table, to snugly put Nimbostratus on the chair by the fire. ‘You be good now,’ he murmured, while arranging its paws. ‘Do not throw any parties and do not let in any strangers.’

Pansy’s lipstick stuck to his cheek on their way out.

The Entrance Hall contained a few last-minute stragglers, all leaving the Great Hall after breakfast and heading through the double oak doors to watch the second task.

Draco chewed up a left-over raspberry donut from the breakfast table as they strolled down the stone steps and out onto the bright, chilly grounds. The heartbeat in his ring was going surprisingly slowly for someone who was about to potentially die. With a tightening of his stomach, he remembered Snape’s words, so Draco took off the ring and put it in his pocket, deciding he certainly did not want to feel it when the ring stopped beating. He had no idea how he would ever cope with that.

As Pansy stifled a yawn, they noticed the seats that had encircled the dragons’ enclosure in November were now ranged along the opposite bank, rising in stands that were packed to the bursting point and reflected in the lake below. The excited babble of the crowd echoed strangely across the water.

‘Where is that dung-brain?’ Draco wondered out loud as they shuffled along the chairs towards Crabbe and Goyle.

The judges were sitting at a gold-draped table at the water’s edge. Cedric, Fleur, and Krum were beside the judges’ table. There was no sign of Potter. ‘Good grief,’ Draco drawled as they reached the seats his friends saved for them, ‘is he _late_?’ 

Pansy sniggered. ‘Would not surprise me. ’Morning, girls!’

Tracey and Daphne turned around in their chairs on the row below them, and straight away launched into a discussion about Fleur’s hairdo. Still standing up to look out over the lake, Draco froze in shock. ‘Oh Merlin…’

Pansy followed his gaze, and so did the girls.

Harry Potter was flat-out running around the other side of the lake, charging toward the judges’ table.

‘Oh my,’ said Pansy.

Potter skidded to a halt in the mud, splattering the robes of Fleur Delacour and the girls laughed scathingly. Pansy pulled at Draco’s robes. ‘He’ll be fine.’

With his eyes fixed on Potter, he sat down, muttering, ‘Bad start.’

Harry was bending over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath; he had a hand in his side as if he’d been stabbed in the ribs. There was no time for him to catch his breath. Ludo Bagman was already moving among the champions, spacing them along the bank at intervals of ten feet. Harry was on the very end of the line, next to Krum, who was wearing swimming trunks and was holding his wand.

Harry was not wearing swimming trunks. He came dressed fully in his school uniform.

‘Stupid idiot,’ Draco grumbled through gritted teeth.

Bagman gave Potter’s shoulder a squeeze and returned to the judges’ table; he pointed his wand at his throat and his voice boomed out across the dark water toward the stands. ‘Well, all our champions are ready for the second task, which will start on my whistle. They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then. One… two… three!’

The whistle echoed shrilly in the cold, still air. The stands erupted with cheers and applause.

Without even looking around, Potter pulled off his shoes and socks – nothing more than that –, grabbed something out of his pocket, stuffed it into his mouth… and he waded out into the lake.

‘He– He just went in,’ Draco stammered.

‘He’s still wearing his robes and everything,’ Tracey exclaimed.

Waist-deep in the water, Potter stopped. The people at the stands started laughing, and Draco clenched his fists, swearing under his breath. ‘He’s a dead man. _Dead_ man. He didn’t prepare anything.’ Pulling at his hair, Draco covered his eyes.

‘I think he’s waiting,’ said Pansy, ‘for something…’

‘Lost your way already, Scarhead?!’ yelled a sixth-year Slytherin, and the crowd roared with laughter.

Peeking through his fingers, Draco saw Harry shivering violently. ‘That’s it,’ he snapped, and got up.

Pansy snapped to the edge of her seat. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Getting him out.’

If Dumbledore didn’t take responsibility, somebody else had to, Draco reckoned, and he didn’t see Potter’s useless bodyguards anywhere either. As usual, it all came down to him again.

A loud splash echoed across the lake. Harry had flung himself forward into the water and disappeared. Draco fell down on the steps of the stands. ‘Oh Merlin – he’s in…’

And with that, the big wait started. 

‘What kind of game is this?’ growled Vincent after fifteen minutes. ‘Nothing’s happening.’

Draco grumbled in agreement. They’d been staring at the Great Lake, smooth as glass, with nothing to entertain them in sight. This show simply wasn’t for him, so he went back to the castle to do his homework, only to take it back to the stands and continue spending the entire hour fixated on the surface of the Great Lake, mindlessly tearing up a piece of parchment. Pansy, Vincent and Gregory were sharing food, cracking jokes, making bets and chatting about the contenders and their chances, but Draco hardly heard them. He couldn’t stop imagining Harry deep, deep down in that lake, abandoned by everyone, gasping for breath and choking on dark, icy water…

There was no way Dumbledore could keep him safe when he was down there, Draco thought. They couldn’t even see him. They didn’t know what was going on down there at all.

‘We should have stayed in the Common Room,’ he growled. ‘We’d –’

His complaints were interrupted when a haunting mersong pierced the air. ‘An hour long you’ll have to look and to recover what we took…’

Pansy shivered. ‘Could they make this anymore eery?’

‘Your time’s half gone, so tarry not, lest what you seek stays here to rot…’

Draco sat up straight. ‘Rot? Did they say _rot_?’

‘I’m sure it’s not literal,’ said Pansy, although she didn’t sound very confident. ‘Right?’

After ages and ages, wrinkles appeared on the surface of the lake. Someone broke through it and Draco jumped up –

It was Fleur Delacour. There was an enormous bubble around her head, which made her features look oddly wide and stretched. Her leg was bleeding profusely.

Draco swallowed hard. This was fine, he told himself. Surely Harry Potter was more capable of defending himself than… than the best 18-year old, final-year student the entire country of France had to offer?

‘I can’t watch this,’ he mumbled, shifting nervously in his seat. He pressed his fingers into his cheeks so hard they probably left markings.

They all watched how the Healers patched Fleur up, for lack of anything else to see. Pansy seized Draco’s sweaty hands to paint his nails silver and after that, they waited some more.

‘I could have been napping right now,’ grumbled Gregory. 

When the silver nail polish had dried, Pansy carefully applied the sparkly green crackle nail polish Draco loved so much. It took an experienced hand to apply it, so Draco didn’t allow anyone but Pansy to touch him with it. Daphne and Tracey turned around in their chairs to watch her work with unconcealed awe.

‘Don’t blow on it,’ advised Daphne.

‘Don’t move at all,’ added Tracey.

It was nice to have something else to focus on. Not being allowed to move was incredibly difficult and demanded most of Draco’s attention. 

Pansy bit her lip around a smile as she inspected his hands. ‘It looks so good.’

Draco jumped when the voice of Ludo Bagman echoed across the lake. ‘An hour has passed! None of the Champions have succeeded in saving their hostage in time!’

Right as he was saying this, something broke through the surface of the lake for the second time – and again, Draco was foolish enough to jump up –

It was Diggory, wearing the same ridiculous bubble on his head as Fleur Delacour had been wearing. As he lifted Cho Chang out of the water, she started gasping and coughing and came to from unconsciousness.

The crowd went wild. Draco couldn’t make out a word Ludo Bagman was saying. ‘Does this mean,’ Draco asked his friend with a feeble assumption of airiness, ‘the others are left to rot?’

‘I guess,’ said Tracey, at which Pansy smacked her with her wand.

‘No, it does not! They are fine!’

Not even ten minutes later, a monstrous being cut through the water: a human body in swimming trunks with the head of a shark. ‘Krum!’ shouted someone in the crowd, and everyone cheered.

Viktor Krum was carrying Hermione Granger, and Draco felt sick. ‘If that Mudblood lives and Harry dies… Well, I’m gonna be so freaking pissed.’

They watched Madam Pomfrey fussing over Granger, Krum, Diggory, and Chang, all of whom were wrapped in thick blankets now.

‘He’s dead.’ Draco hid his head under his arms. ‘Dead as a doornail. I am certain. Ooh, why have I been so mean?’

Pansy stroked his hair while raving about Krum’s shark head with Daphne and Tracey.

Every minute they had to wait, it became harder for Draco not to reach into his pocket and check the ring. It would have been such a comfort to feel it still beating – but it would be unexplainable if he touched an ordinary ring and broke down in the middle of the stands.

So he waited, and waited – and waited some more.

‘This is taking years of my life.’ Draco’d ran out of parchment to tear up and felt annoyed to his core now. ‘I swear to Merlin, if Potter takes ten more minutes to show up, I will get in there and personally look for his body myself. This is ridiculous.’

It did take ten more minutes; Draco had carefully timed it, bopping his knee and watching the seconds tick away. So, never one to flunk out, he threw down his books, dropped his cloak – scattering a million tiny pieces of parchment – and stomped down the steps of the stands towards the lake.

Pansy followed at his heel. ‘Draco, stop,’ she hissed, ‘you’re making an arse of yourself.’

‘I know this and I do not care,’ Draco drawled. The judges, the Champions, the sounds of the crowd; they were all one big blur somewhere in the back of his consciousness, pressed to the back by his fear for Harry.

‘Master Malfoy.’ The voice of Albus Dumbledore resounded at the edges of Draco’s red haze. ‘Can we help you with anything?’

‘He’s going to get Potter, Professor!’ Pansy blabbed with a panicky voice, while still holding onto Draco’s sleeve to pull him back.

‘Ah,’ said Dumbledore calmly. ‘Poppy? We require a little Soothing Spirit over here, please.’

As he said this, an invisible force pulled Draco back, away from Harry in the lake. It was the same spell Mad-Eye Moody had used, which only worsened Draco’s anger. ‘I do not need to be soothed,’ he snapped, desperately trying to free himself from the magic. ‘What I need is someone – anyone – to take proper care of Harry Potter.’

Pomfrey appeared at Pansy’s side with the Soothing Spirit. ‘Ah Draco, dear, I understand your concern.’

‘You do not understand _shit,_ ’ Draco muttered.

Pansy gasped. ‘Language!’

‘Not to worry, dear,’ Pomfrey kept simpering. ‘I wouldn’t allow any of our students to get hurt at our own premises.’

‘Tell that to Moaning Myrtle,’ Draco mumbled, as a thick blanket and a bottle of Pepper-up Potion were pressed into his hands.

‘Draco,’ Pansy hissed, ‘you are being so rude right now.’

‘When Harry gets here, you make sure to give him this,’ said Madam Pomfrey, pointedly ignoring Draco’s rudeness. ‘Can I trust you with that?’

Draco straightened up. He’d be damned if she couldn’t.

With the Relics of Responsibility safely in his hands, he paced up and down around the judges table, the champions and along the banks of the Great Lake.

Just as he was glowering at Granger – who dared to look at him with something resembling pity – the crowd went wild. Whirling around, Draco finally – finally – saw the little head of his homeboy popping up from the water. The boy’s entire body seemed to be reaching for air, making Draco feel suffocated himself.

Harry was pulling two people with him: his dumb Weasel and a little girl he’d never seen before. All around him, the wild, green-haired heads of merpeople were emerging out of the water with him. They were smiling. The crowd in the stands was making a great deal of noise; shouting and screaming, they all seemed to be on their feet. The girl looked scared and confused, but Weasley expelled a great spout of water, blinking in the bright light, and seemed to immediately reprimand Harry for something. While Potter and Weasley pulled the little girl through the water, back toward the bank where the judges stood watching, twenty merpeople accompanied them like a guard of honour, singing their horrible, screechy songs.

Draco felt a jab of envy when the Prefect-Weasley splashed through the water to drag his little brother back to the bank, and Delacour had broken free of Madame Maxime to hug the little girl, while Dumbledore and Bagman were pulling Harry upright. All while stuck-up Draco was standing next to the judges table with a blanket and some Pepper-Up potion, unable to move.

Something jabbed in his back. ‘Go on then,’ Pansy hissed.

Draco snapped out of his frozen state. ‘He’s fine,’ he said, forcing a shrug. ‘I knew it.’

‘Sure you did.’

Trying tirelessly to push back the blanket and the potion into Madam Pomfrey’s hands – who didn’t accept them – Draco rambled, ‘I didn’t doubt it, you know, not really. He is – well, in case you forgot – he is The Boy Who Lived, after all. And, well, what’s the use of worrying anyway, in the grand scheme of things? Think about it. I would never have come anyway, you see, if I weren’t dragged here. I could have spent this time much more productively, actually. A-and for what? F-for looking… at a lake… Worrying, for naught –’

Madam Pomfrey turned him around and pushed him in Harry’s direction. ‘I need you to bring this to Harry, dear, I’m a little short-handed.’

‘Right,’ squealed Draco, looking at the crowd surrounding Potter at the lakeside, his stomach swirling with anxiety. ‘Right…’

Fleur Delacour bent down to Harry and as Draco watched, she kissed him, twice, on each cheek – and Harry’s face burnt as if _she_ gave him the Pepper-Up Potion.

‘That trollop,’ Draco growled from the bottom of his heart, and he found himself storming over. Without looking at anyone, Draco pushed the Potion in Potter’s hands and threw the blanket around his shoulders. ‘Drink,’ he snarled. 

Harry did. His face heated up and steam came out of his ears and Draco couldn’t contain a smirk. When a wild shiver ran through Potter’s body and he violently shook his head, Draco felt his face grow soft.

‘You all right?’ Harry’s eyes locked on Draco’s, whose smile faltered.

‘Me?’

Harry grinned, pointing at Draco’s head. ‘Don’t think I ever saw your hair messy.’

Quickly, Draco tried to smooth it out, but it was no use without a mirror, and Harry just laughed. ‘Piss off, Potter.’

Spotting a fresh collection of wounds on Harry, Draco took out his wand. ‘You know, I’m not the one here taking – Episkey – way too long, while that French – Episkey – girl was covered in blood, and she’s – Episkey – you know, three years older. That was _not_ a – Episkey – well, a good sign. Merlin, look at you – Episkey – you’re a mess.’

Grinning, Harry opened his mouth to no doubt reply with something brave or sweet, when Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice boomed out beside them, making them jump apart, and causing the crowd in the stands to go very quiet.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows…’

Draco subtly bumped his shoulder against Harry’s when he noticed him tense up beside him.

‘Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attacked by grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points.’

Applause from the stands.

‘I deserved zero,’ said Delacour throatily, shaking her head.

‘Cedric Diggory, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with his hostage, though he returned one minute outside the time limit of an hour.’ Enormous cheers from the Hufflepuffs in the crowd. ‘We therefore award him forty-seven points.’

As everyone was staring at Bagman, Draco glanced at Harry, whose face clouded over while he furiously scratched his head with both hands.

‘Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was second to return with his hostage. We award him forty points. Harry Potter…’

Harry’s fingers pressed suddenly into Draco’s wrist with such force that Draco squirmed, happily.

‘ – used gillyweed to great effect,’ Bagman continued. ‘He returned last and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr. Potter was first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return _all_ hostages to safety, not merely his own.’

Draco yanked his arm away from Potter. ‘ _What_?’ He looked to Weasley and Granger for back-up, but they just gave Harry half-exasperated, half-commiserating looks. Perhaps they were used to it, Draco thought. Or maybe they just hadn’t been here, waiting for what felt like hours while the other Champions resurfaced in various states of injury.

‘Most of the judges,’ Bagman gave Karkaroff a nasty look, ‘feel that this shows moral fibre and merits full marks.’

‘Moral fibre, my arse,’ Draco grumbled as he crossed his arms. He’d prefer a beating heart any day.

‘However,’ said Bagman. ‘Mr. Potter’s score is forty-five points.’

Draco’s stomach leapt – Harry was now tying for first place with Diggory! Harry looked happy, so much happier than he’d looked at any point since the Yule ball.

‘There you go, Harry!’ Weasley shouted over the noise. ‘You weren’t being thick after all – you were showing moral fibre!’

Draco nearly cracked up; that was his cue to go, he reckoned. Without anyone noticing, he slipped away, trying his best to look casual and uninterested. Pansy, Vincent and Gregory fell into step with him as soon as he reached the stands, and they made their way back to the castle ahead of the crowd.

‘You’re sweet together,’ said Pansy.

Relief did stupid things to Draco’s face; he couldn’t contain his smile.

Behind them, Bagman was talking about the championship and the next task, but Draco did not want to think about that just yet. As he slipped his comfortably beating ring back on his finger, Draco thought about the way Harry’d looked at him. The following weeks, Harry would have oceans of time again… oceans of time for Draco.

. . .

Harry did not have oceans of time for Draco those following weeks. Everywhere he went, crowds formed, asking The Boy Who Lived what had happened underwater, how he managed to save not one, but two hostages, how terribly brave he must have been…

Even Weasley was famous now. When they couldn’t reach Potter, they tried to hear him out, and he was positively basking in the limelight.

One afternoon, while waiting for Potions class, Weasley was telling a tall tale of kidnap in which he struggled single-handedly against fifty heavily armed merpeople who had to beat him into submission before tying him up. ‘But I had my wand hidden up my sleeve,’ he assured one of the Patil-sisters. ‘I could’ve taken those mer-idiots any time I wanted.’

Draco couldn’t stand it. It was one thing to have Weasley be the person Harry would miss most, but seeing him boast about his made-up achievements in the Great Lake made Draco ready to vomit.

‘One of these days…’ he muttered at Vincent and Gregory. ‘I will actually murder him. And it will be the height of my life.’

. . .

In line for dinner at the Entrance Hall, Draco felt warm fingers around his wrist. They curled his hand around a ball of paper. Without looking around, Draco put it in his pocket. He didn’t open it until after dinner, sitting alone by the fire.

‘Eight o’clock, Astronomy Tower,’ it read, signed with Potter’s signature heart.

Harry always signed his notes to Draco with a heart wearing little round glasses. These days, Draco wondered if Harry didn’t just sign everything with it; he probably signed his exams with it too. He wondered how many other people in this castle got notes like these, now that everyone seemed to love Potter so much again. If he could keep Draco a secret, he could keep anyone secret, Draco reckoned. What else was he so busy with that he could barely find the time to meet Draco if not with loads of other hook-ups? If you asked Draco, Harry had means, motive and opportunity, and that didn’t calm Draco’s mind. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t noticed the mutual ogling between Harry, Chang and Diggory, and the Girl-Weasley was getting awfully close with him too – and if Ron Weasley was the most important person to Harry… Draco wondered what went on behind closed curtains in those Gryffindor dorm rooms.

‘Aurgh!’ he bellowed, trying to shake off the images of his homeboy entangled with all those nasty people.

‘What’s up?’ asked Blaise, peering around a chair by the fire. Somehow, the guy was always there when Draco thought he was alone and in a mood to put his face in the fire.

‘Potter’s not the type to have threesomes, right?’ Draco blurted out.

Blaise looked a little rattled. ‘Malfoy,’ he uttered. ‘We’re fourteen.’

‘Right… right…’ Pressing a clean quill into his skin, Draco scratched a lightning bolt on his forearm. He looked up. ‘So is – well, is that a no?’

Blaise leaned forward in his chair, pinching his fingers together. ‘For the record,’ he said, ‘we all hate the guy. All of us here in Slytherin. My mum would’ve poisoned him ages ago.’

Draco damn well knew that. ‘Just because he’s in Gryffindor –’

‘Just because he’s a _jerk_ to you,’ snapped Blaise, pointing aggressively at his temple.

Feeling uneasy under his house mate’s gaze, Draco crossed his arms. ‘Right.’

The snake clock on the wall hissed once. Draco shut his books and got up to drag himself to the Astronomy Tower. He’d gotten a lot better at sneaking around since first year and arrived unnoticed by anyone. He was fifteen minutes early, but he wanted to use all the time he could get from Potter. The guy had some serious explaining to do, Draco reminded himself. They really needed to talk this time; there should not be any snogging or undressing before they had talked. Draco scratched the lightning bolt wound on his wrist some more to keep his mind on track. No snogging.

Usually, Harry arrived earlier than Draco, appearing out of nowhere from underneath his Cloak or sneaking up on him for a surprise kiss. ‘Potter?’ Draco whispered as he stepped onto the top of the Astronomy Tower, but there was no reply, so Draco charmed a piece of the stone wall around the tower to be more comfortable, and sat down – to wait.

And wait.

At five minutes past eight, Draco jumped up to pace around, grumbling under his breath. ‘Stupid Potter.’ He needed to make amends and instead he was _late_?

Watching Potter use Accio to fetch his broom during the first task made Draco practice relentlessly on it too. It was a darn convenient spell. After another ten minutes of waiting, Draco shouted, ‘Accio _A walk with a vampire_!’ It took a while, probably because someone had to open the door to the Common Room to let the book through, but then it smacked into Draco’s face. ‘Augh!’

Reading it made the time pass faster, but still, at every sound, his head shot up and his heart jolted. Yet every time he was disappointed when it turned out to be an owl or a cat, or the wind, making the door creak, or the ancient tower just slowly falling apart. Draco wished it got on with it. The tower collapsing would at least spare him from sitting out the rest of this lonely, miserable life.

At nine o’clock, he gave up. Harry Potter had officially forgotten about Draco Malfoy.

. . .

For probably the first time in his life, Draco did not complain. Mainly because he would die of humiliation if anyone even pictured him sitting alone in the dark, waiting for a stupid celebrity. Pansy and her girls picked up on something though. Or rather, Tracey did.

During lunch, the fourth-year Slytherin girls were having the giggles over the latest copy of Witches Weekly. Usually, Draco would have been all over them, too curious to let it go, but today he wasn’t in the mood.

‘Draco! Get a load of this!’

‘No,’ grumbled Draco.

‘You’re so grumpy lately.’ Tracey playfully booped his nose.

He slammed her hand away, snarling, ‘Back off.’

It made Pansy’s entire gang of girls stare at him. ‘Oh, he is grumpy!’ said Daphne.

‘His aura’s all red,’ Tracey pointed out matter-of-factly. ‘A clouded red; murky…’

‘ _Je t’emmerde_ ,’ Draco muttered.

The girls giggled.

‘Leave him alone,’ said Gregory. It was directed at Pansy – being their leader – who put her hands in the air as if she was innocent.

Draco glared at her, for no particular reason, so she got up, saying, ‘Alright, alright. Come on, Dacey Travis. We’ve better things to do than poking our nose in Draco’s love life.’

‘Since when?’ growled Draco.

They had Potions again that afternoon and he was dreading it. He knew he needed to confront Harry about standing him up at the Astronomy Tower, but he really didn’t want to. What was the point? It would not make Potter love him; it would only make Draco look pathetic. Nobody respected, let alone liked, someone pathetic. There was simply nothing to gain with talking about it.

Draco told himself he was glad it was at least clear now: Harry was a snob, an arrogant, forgetful snob who did not like Draco the way Draco liked him. It was better to know, he reckoned, than to keep getting his hopes up, only to be disappointed over and over again. 

Still, Potions was going to be agony.

He dragged himself down to Snape’s dungeon, just following Vincent and Gregory’s feet in front of him, but as soon as they arrived, he was hauled into Pansy’s gang of girls, who shoved the article they’d been giggling about in his face without his consent.

In a quick glance, he saw it was about Potter and Granger. Startled, he looked away. ‘I don’t want to know.’

Pansy shrieked with laughter. ‘It’s not true, silly! We made it up! Imagine their faces!’

‘I don’t want to imagine their faces.’

‘There they are, there they are!’ Pansy giggled when Potter, Weasley and Granger descended the steps to the dungeons. ‘You might find something to interest you in there, Granger!’ Pansy said loudly, and she threw the magazine at Hermione, who caught it, looking startled.

The dungeon door opened, and Snape beckoned them all inside. Draco followed his friends to the front of the Dungeon, where they watched Granger rifle through the magazine under her desk, while Snape wrote up the ingredients of today’s potion on the blackboard.

Granger’s and Potter’s faces didn’t show any sign of distress as they read the article. In fact, Granger giggled when she was done reading, and she threw the magazine on the empty chair beside her. She gave Pansy a sarcastic smile and a wave, before starting on their Wit-Sharpening Potion.

‘Merlin, she’s so lame,’ muttered Pansy.

Draco decided to focus on the potion and closed himself off from the others as he worked.

He was halfway done already when Snape’s icy voice broke the silence. ‘Fascinating though your social life undoubtedly is, Miss Granger, I must ask you not to discuss it in my class. Ten points from Gryffindor.’

Snape had glided over to Granger and Potter’s desk. The whole class was now looking around at them. The whole class, except one: Harry stared at Draco.

Panicking, Draco flashed POTTER STINKS across the dungeon. Stupid Potter.

‘Ah… reading magazines under the table as well?’ Snape added, snatching up the copy of Witch Weekly. ‘A further ten points from Gryffindor… Oh, but of course…’ Snape’s black eyes glittered as they fell on Rita Skeeter’s article. ‘Potter has to keep up with his press cuttings…’

The dungeon rang with the Slytherins’ laughter, and a smile curled Snape’s thin mouth. To Draco’s dread, he began to read the article aloud, pausing at the end of every sentence to allow the class a hearty laugh. Draco suffered from start to finish.

‘“Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache”… Dear dear, Potter, what’s ailing you now? “A boy like no other, perhaps… yet a boy suffering all the usual pangs of adolescence. Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen year-old Harry Potter thought he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger.’”

‘Steady girlfriend?’ Draco hissed, his heart sinking.

Pansy turned around to whisper, ‘I made it up!’

‘“Little did he know that he would shortly be suffering yet another emotional blow in a life already littered with personal loss. Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone cannot satisfy. Since the arrival at Hogwarts of Viktor Krum, Bulgarian Seeker and hero of the last World Quidditch Cup, Miss Granger has been toying with both boys’ affections.’

Draco shot the Mudblood a contemptuous look. ‘She’ll pay…’

‘Draco, stop!’ Pansy laughed. ‘It’s not true.’

Draco flushed, scowling at his crossed arms.

‘“However, it might not be Miss Granger’s doubtful natural charms that have captured these unfortunate boys’ interest. ‘She’s really ugly,’ says Pansy Parkinson, a pretty and vivacious fourth-year student, ‘but she’d be well up to making a Love Potion, she’s quite brainy. I think that’s how she’s doing it.’”’

Pansy wiggled her eyebrows. ‘Pretty and vivacious.’

‘It’s made up, Parky.’ Draco smirked and got a beetle thrown in his face.

‘“Harry Potter’s well-wishers must hope that, next time, he bestows his heart upon a worthier candidate."’

‘Ha!’ The short, scornful sound escaped Draco before he could prevent it. Thankfully, it got drowned in the sounds of laughter from the other Slytherins.

‘How very touching,’ sneered Snape, rolling up the magazine to continued gales of laughter from the Slytherins. ‘Well, I think I had better separate the three of you, so you can keep your minds on your potions rather than on your tangled love lives. Weasley, you stay here. Miss Granger, over there, beside Miss Parkinson. Potter –’

Draco made himself as small as possible between Crabbe and Goyle.

‘That table in front of my desk. Move. Now.’

Looking furious, Potter threw his ingredients and his bag into his cauldron and dragged it up to the front of the dungeon to the empty table, where Snape seemed to have a quiet heart-to-heart with him.

Draco focussed on his potion again. In fact, he focused on it with such force that he didn’t notice everyone packing up until they were all ready to leave when the bell rang. ‘ _Merde_ ,’ he muttered, grabbing his stuff to toss them in the cabinet at the back of the classroom. While doing so, one of the jars broke and muck dripped on the floor. ‘ _Fait chier!’_

Pansy touched his shoulder. ‘You alr–’

‘Piss off!’ he snapped. ‘Seriously, can you stop smothering me for even a second?’

Startled and sulking, Pansy beckoned their friends and they all left him alone. Draco glared at their backs as he cleaned the floor. ‘ _Je t’emmerde…_ ’

To let off some steam, Draco cleaned his table the Muggle way. It worked a little, at least in tiring him. Wiping his forehead, he felt a hand on his arm and looked up.

Harry Potter.

Draco backed away. ‘Piss off...’

‘What’s wrong, Dra?’

‘Don’t call me Dra, Scarhead.’

‘Draconius?’ Harry smiled.

Draco straightened his back, scowling. He couldn’t believe Potter’s nerve, still using that nickname after all this time, as if he’d done absolutely nothing wrong.

Grabbing his bag, Draco walked out of the classroom, into the mass of students filling the corridor outside.

‘Wait, Draco, why are you–?’

Draco turned around, spreading his arms while walking backwards through the crowd. He gestured at his ear, mouthing, ‘Can’t hear you.’

As he’d suspected, Potter remained at the doorway of Snape’s Dungeon. He would never openly talk to him, Draco knew by now. Either because Draco embarrassed him or because Harry had a dozen other girl- and boyfriends he couldn’t risk exposing Draco to.

Draco dropped his arms. They were done.

. . .

Sitting at the Slytherin table for breakfast on the morning of the third Triwizard Task, Draco kept his mind busy with the latest article about Harry Potter in the Daily Prophet.

‘HARRY POTTER: DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS,’ the banner headline read.

After Pansy had been such a help to Rita Skeeter, the reporter had asked the other Slytherins a few questions as well. Draco’d been feeling particularly spiteful when she’d approached him, so he quickly scanned the article to check out the damage. 

“‘Potter can speak Parseltongue,’ reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts fourth year. ‘There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago, and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a duelling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he’s made friends with werewolves and giants too. We think he’d do anything for a bit of power.’”

Perhaps the “lose his temper” part was a bit of a stretch, but Potter really did have a short fuse. Draco looked over at the other side of the Hall, where Harry Potter argued with his friends over the newspaper.

‘Hey, Potter!’ Draco’d jumped up in an impulse to shout across the Great Hall. ‘POTTER! How’s your head? You feeling all right? Sure you’re not going to go berserk on us?’ He held up his copy of the Daily Prophet.

Slytherins up and down the table were sniggering, twisting in their seats to see Harry’s reaction, and over at the Gryffindor table, Potter was holding out his hand with that fierce look of his, so Weasley had no choice but to surrender the newspaper.

While Potter read it, Draco, Vincent, and Gregory were laughing at him, tapping their heads with their fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling their tongues like snakes.

To their confusion, though, Harry grinned and ate his breakfast, looking quite chipper. Falling back in his chair, Draco scowled. He caught Pansy rolling her eyes at him and he pushed away his plate, feeling furious and frustrated… and alone. There was no way he going to watch the Third Task, he promised himself. If his friends wanted him to go with them, they would have to drag his dead body.

. . .

Draco kid no one with his silent vow. That afternoon, he meekly traipsed after his friends to watch the Third Task. It turned out to be as boring and nerve-wrecking as the second one had been. This time, to be absolutely safe, Draco’d left his ring in the dormitory, locked inside the magically secured jewellery box that covered anyone trying to break into it with pitch and feathers that wouldn’t wash off for days.

‘I need to move my legs,’ Pansy declared during the long, long wait for the Champions to find their way back out of a huge maze.

‘Me, miss, pick me, _please_ ,’ begged Draco with his hand in the air.

Pansy pretended to think, stroking an imaginary beard and checking all other contenders, who were slouching down and looking away. The competition was murderous. ‘Convince me!’ she said in a low-pitched voice with a bad American accent. ‘Why would I choose you?’

Jumping up, Draco curled his imaginary moustache and offered Pansy an arm. ‘Because I will treat you like a lady.’

Pansy shrieked with laughter and accepted his arm, so they started stomping up and down the steps of the stands, vigorously at first, racing each other, but soon they were catching their breaths, draped over the railing. Their walk turned into a saunter.

‘Tracey says’ – Pansy sounded overly casual, so Draco braced himself – ‘that your aura is less red these days.’

‘That’s a relief,’ Draco drawled. ‘As you know, crimson does nothing for my complexion.’

It made Pansy laugh, and Draco relaxed. He bet his aura turned golden every time he made his friends laugh.

‘So you’re all good now?’ Pansy prodded.

‘Peachy,’ Draco drawled. ‘Well, you know, it is what it is… Potter and me just didn’t match – clearly. You know, if anything, he did me a favour, really, by being such a bastard. I mean, it saved me the trouble of breaking up with him _and_ I don’t have to fight my parents or sneak around the castle anymore. You see, it’s perfect. I’ll just get over him and find myself a girl. A proper, pure-blood girlfriend.’ Draco glanced over his shoulder to check if Har– if any of the champions got back yet. They hadn’t.

Pansy snorted. ‘Right. No fuss.’

They reached the bottom step, turned around, and strolled back up.

‘Speaking of girlfriends…’ Draco smirked. ‘Is yours _loony_ about you yet?’

She shoved him. ‘Shout it louder, twat.’ She glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘Well, if you must know… I gave up.’

‘What? Why?’

‘She’s too… foggy. I think she likes being alone.’

Draco shot her a look. ‘Ah right, the way I like to bully my future husband, you mean? It means you need to try harder, you dumb wuss.’

She shrugged, peeking sadly over her shoulder to the girl in yellow with the giant lion on her head. Not replying to an insult must be Pansy’s tell, Draco realised.

He didn’t like it. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll find a proper, pureblood _boyfriend_ now.’

Pansy groaned. ‘Yeah, they are lining up for me. You know, Primrose keeps trying to set me up, sending me pictures of boys she meets on the road to say I should write them.’

‘Well, you should… I can write them for you!’

She shot him a tired look, but her eyes sparkled. ‘Draco, for real…’

‘What?’

‘You are so incredibly gay.’

He flushed as she shrieked with laughter. ‘Piss off, Pansy.’

‘I don’t mean it in a bad way.’ She smirked. ‘Gay is not a synonym for shitty.’

‘It makes me feel shitty,’ Draco said without thinking.

Pansy’s face fell. She didn’t say anything, but they sighed softly in unison. She linked her pinkie around Draco’s. ‘Want to hear something funny? Primrose says I should date Graham Montague.’

Draco smirked. ‘Why in Merlin’s name would you do that?’

An elaborate shrug was all the answer he got.

They made their way back to Pansy’s chair, where she slumped down and Draco got pushed by a very annoyed Daphne when he climbed over her to get to his own seat on the row above them.

‘Cauldron cake?’ offered Blaise Zabini, who was out of the blue sitting next to him.

Draco sized him up. ‘Why are you always hanging around us? What do you want?’

Zabini’s disdainful look was a perfect mirror to Draco’s. ‘ _Fanculo_ , Malfoy.’ He jerked the bag of Cauldron Cakes away and put his feet up on the chair in front of him.

Draco instantly liked him a whole lot better. ‘Accio Cauldron cake,’ he drawled, and when the cake floated towards him and he snapped it out of the air like a dog, Blaise almost smirked.

With pinched thumb and index finger Blaise drew a line in the air. The guy was always waving his hands about like he hoped to hit someone in the face, but the silly movements never told Draco much.

‘Perfect,’ Zabini clarified.

Before Draco could snarl at him, the crowd collectively gasped. There was an upsurge of noise as people jumped to see what happened. Draco climbed on his chair to look over the crowd.

Two figures had appeared out of nowhere at the entrance of the maze. They slammed to the ground and one of them was holding a large cup – the Triwizard Cup. The crowd went wild; the torrent of sound deafened Draco.

‘They got back!’

‘Who is it?!’

‘Harry Potter!’

‘It’s Harry Potter!’

‘They’re not getting up…’

‘Why are they not getting up?’

Something unpleasant was rising like bile in Draco’s throat and before he knew it, he’d hurled himself down the stands. He was by no means the only one making his way to the Champions: when he reached the ground, a crowd had formed around the two already. Trembling with worry, Draco elbowed his way forward, but couldn’t get past the tight knot of adults around Harry, who seemed to be lying face forward in the grass.

Whispers soughed through the crowd. They took a second to reach Draco’s ears. He listened closely to make out the words.

‘He’s dead.’ 

He’s…

Dead…

Arms were holding Draco. His legs had given up.

His ring – there was no heartbeat against his thumb.

He couldn’t breathe. ‘Harry–’ His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. 

Vincent pushed someone out of the way, and finally Draco caught sight of the Champions: Harry was clutching a grey-looking Cedric Diggory to him; his free hand was around Dumbledore’s wrist as he whispered urgently to him.

The arms were still holding Draco when relief washed over him. ‘Not dead.’ He breathed heavily now as if to catch up for lost time, clasping the arms when black spots appeared before his eyes. ‘Years of my life…’

And with a pop he remembered: he wasn’t wearing his ring.

‘Merlin, I’m so stupid,’ he groaned.

Dumbledore bent down, and with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, he raised Potter from the ground and set him on his feet. Harry swayed.

‘He’s hurt.’ Draco’s voice was drowned out by the noise of the crowd.

‘He’ll need to go to the hospital wing!’ Cornelis Fudge shouted over the tumult. ‘He’s ill, he’s injured – Dumbledore, Diggory’s parents, they’re here, they’re in the stands…’

‘I’ll take Harry, Dumbledore, I’ll take him!’

Draco’s head shot in the direction of the voice. It had come from Mad-Eye Moody. ‘No,’ Draco mumbled, trying to free himself from the arms. ‘Not him.’

‘No, I would prefer –’ said Dumbledore, too.

‘Amos Diggory’s running,’ Fudge’s shouts turned frantic. ‘He’s coming over! Don’t you think you should tell him – before he sees – ?’

‘Harry, stay here –’

‘No,’ said Draco, feeling helpless as he watched Moody half pulling, half carrying Potter, as if there was great urgency to take him away. Potter was pressing a hand to his scar, looking as though he was about to throw up. ‘I don’t trust him,’ Draco snarled, but no one heard.

Girls were screeching in his ears, sobbing hysterically. The frightened crowd was gasping, screaming and shouting.

‘Come on, Malfoy,’ said Vincent, and the arms pulled Draco backwards. They trudged through the mass of people and crossed the field to the now half-empty stands, where his friends sat him down.

Draco still had trouble breathing and wasn’t ready to give up yet. ‘Where did he take him?’

‘Babe, Potter’s fine,’ Pansy assured him while Crabbe and Goyle pressed Draco firmly back in the chair. ‘You’re having a panic attack, silly boy. Breathe.’

‘Darn right, I have,’ Draco squeaked, craning to see where Moody was taking Potter and yanking at all the arms restraining him, suffocating him. ‘ _Fous les camps!_ I can’t bloody breathe.’

As he spoke, he noticed a weird, raspy sound. It came and went with his breath.

Blaise emptied the paper bag of Cauldron cakes in Vincent’s hands and put it to Draco’s mouth. ‘Breathe in this.’

Draco slammed him away. ‘ _Fanculo_ , Zabini.’

Blaise’s eyebrows shot up, even more so when Draco drew a straight line in the air, mimicking his earlier gesture. It made the guy smirk. ‘That makes zero sense, _stupido_.’ 

Running his hands through his hair, Draco slouched back in his chair and focused on his breathing. Bit by bit, realisation dawned on him.

‘I’m fine,’ he snarled at his fussing friends, while running a few more hands through his hair. He breathed out, slowly – then dropped his head in his hands. Pansy sat down next to him, stroking his neck as Draco rubbed his face. He steadied himself. ‘I don’t care about him… I shouldn’t. I don’t.’

‘Well, none of us wish him _dead_ ,’ said Pansy, ‘per se.’

He pushed her away. ‘Well, it shouldn’t make a difference. He is dead to me. He _is_!’

His friends didn’t say anything to that. For a while all Draco heard were the screams and cries of the crowd. People were sitting down everywhere around them, in rather the same way as Draco was.

‘Oh, look,’ Blaise deadpanned, watching the scene with his hands in his pockets, ‘grandpa’s pissed.’

They all watched as Dumbledore walked past in a hurry. The look upon his face as he stared in the direction of the castle was more terrible than Draco could have ever imagined. There was cold fury in every line of the ancient face; a sense of power radiated from their Headmaster as though he were giving off burning heat.

Following at his heel were Severus Snape and Professor McGonagall, and Draco allowed himself to feel comforted. Slouching back in his chair he drew another straight line in the air for Zabini.

Potter would be _perfectly_ fine.

. . .

During the night, the rumour machine had worked overtime. According to the gossip, Cedric Diggory had been killed by the Dark Lord. And not by a fragment of the Dark Lord or by someone carrying the Dark Lord in the back of their head, as usual, but by the real deal this time.

In other words: _the Dark Lord had returned_. He had made the impossible possible: he had risen from the dead. Draco didn’t know whether to be terrified or in awe at this.

Not everyone believed the rumours. Not everyone _wanted_ to believe the rumours. It did sound farfetched, Draco admitted – so he went in search of proof. Karkaroff had left the castle on the day before the final task, so Draco made up an excuse to meet with Snape.

His professor appeared unfazed by current events. ‘Mister Malfoy,’ he drawled, ‘here to complain about your mark, I assume?’

For a second, Draco was taken aback by this question. He choose to ignore it.

‘Is it true, Professor?’ he softly asked.

Snape raised an eyebrow. ‘The disappointing quality of your latest essay? I’m afraid so, yes…’

‘About –’ Draco glanced at the empty classroom and the closed door behind them. ‘About the Dark Lord returning, sir.’

There was a second of silence, in which Snape looked down his nose at Draco. ‘Well, Potter seems convinced,’ he drawled, proceeding to haul a large cauldron to the front of the class. ‘Now, mister Malfoy, your dear friend Longbottom managed to ruin one of my best cauldrons and I have been burdened with the humble task to clean it up.’ With a pointed look, Snape rolled up his sleeves, thereby showing Draco the Dark Mark on his forearm.

Draco’s mouth fell open. The black ink was brighter than ever, almost sparkling in the dim light of the torches on the wall behind Snape. The snake looked real, almost 3D, as if it were crawling underneath Snape’s translucent skin.

A shiver ran down Draco’s spine. He glanced at his Professor’s face, but it told him nothing. ‘Did you see it happen, Professor?’

Snape shortly shook his head. ‘Others did.’

Worry gnawed on his stomach, making Draco nauseous. “Others”… he suspected to know who Snape meant. Had Draco’s own father been there when they’d tried to kill Harry?

He needed to know.

Back in his dorm, Draco sucked on the end of a Deluxe Sugar Quill while pondering how to ask his father about his whereabouts during the third Triwizard Task, without revealing anything if the letter fell into the wrong hands.

Eventually, Draco settled on some casual pleasantries, followed by:

‘Some Gryffindor said he saw you not too long ago, with that guy we talked about last summer. How did that happen? Oh, and you want to know something cool? I found out one of my favourite professors owns a snake! Pretty cool, right? Do you think it is dangerous?

How is mum? I am doing well, although there is a weird vibe in the school since the end of the Triwizard Task. Looking forward to seeing you in a few days.

Love, Draco.’

He received a reply that night already.

‘Draco,

It is bad form to refer to a person as “that guy,” no matter their standing. I did, however, run into your friend, to answer your question, taking me quite by surprise, I must say. At the time, he was with that old friend of mine, so I didn’t pay him much mind. They both looked surprisingly healthy, I dare say, given their circumstances. Me and my friend had quite a pleasant chat actually. Much of our old quarrels are water under the bridge these days. It was unfortunate, however, that your friend had to leave rather abruptly, but we might bump into him again to finish our conversation.

The idea of you near any snakes troubles your mother. She wants you to steer well clear of both the snake and the professor. Speaking for myself, I know some species can be dangerous and should be avoided. Do remember: snakes are not toys. However, if it is property of a Hogwarts Professor, I would say you can probably trust it. 

Your mother is doing well. She is already busying herself planning our social events. It promises to be a fun summer. We are both happy and looking forward to your return.

Did you enjoy the Triwizard Tournament? I bet you loved the dragons. Your mother and I are eager to hear all about it when you get home. Now that it is all over, we are finally allowed to tell you some exciting things about it, too.

It is a shame the Tournament Committee did not consider me for the event organisation; I had no control over it whatsoever. Things could have worked out a lot better if they had just asked my advice. You know how much experience us Malfoys have in these matters.

Stay safe, study hard and we look forward to seeing you very soon.

Love,

Your parents.’

It didn’t tell Draco much, but it was enough. His father practically confirmed the Dark Lord’s return and had been present when it happened. Draco wondered how their “pleasant conversation” had went. Did his father mean the Dark Lord was not angry with the Malfoys, like his parents had feared? It sounded like it, especially considering the fact that Draco’s parents were both happy and looking forward to a fun summer. That didn’t sound like they were still worried.

His mother worried about Draco, but that was no news. Draco’s father trusted Professor Snape, so that was enough reason for Draco to do too.

The last paragraph was harder to decipher. Draco wondered in what way his father meant that things could have worked out “better”? Judging from the first paragraph he found it “unfortunate” that Harry “had to leave rather abruptly,” so Draco tried not to think about what “finishing their conversation” meant exactly. He was afraid he knew.

The letter made Draco’s stomach ache. There was no way Potter would survive another “meeting” with Father’s “old friend”. And there was no way Potter would still want to be friends with Draco now that he’d seen his father as the Dark Lord’s second in command. Potter would never understand. He simply didn’t know the Wizarding World well enough.

Those last days before summer, Draco didn’t see much of Potter, which came as no surprise to anyone anymore. Harry didn’t just have no time for him or forgot him, like before, but he actively avoided Draco. As soon as he spotted him, his face would close off and he’d quickly turn around or round a corner. It was never even subtle.

One time, Pansy hollered after him as he jumped on a moving staircase, ‘You’re a cowardly little asshole, Potter!’ Harry turned a shade darker, but pretended not to hear her, so Pansy shouted louder, ‘AT LEAST HAVE THE BALLS TO END IT!’

She really was half banshee, the way she could scream.

Then she swore so profusely that Draco’s ears turned red. ‘He could have written a gosh darn letter,’ she roared. ‘How hard can it be?’

‘You know, he might not want to break up,’ offered Zabini, slurping on a bright green Slush Crup.

The sound quickly got on Draco’s nerve. ‘Maybe your _mum_ didn’t want to break up,’ he snarled over the deafening noise.

Blaise snorted and handed him the last of the drink. ‘Say what you want, but my mother knows how to finish a relationship.’

Pansy and her girls giggled, having read all about Mrs. Zabini’s long list of husbands who died under suspicious circumstances.

Draco took off the lid of the Slush Crup to gulp down the last bit, then threw the cup down the stairwell. ‘For the House Elves.’

‘So considerate,’ said Zabini. 

Most nights, Draco couldn’t sleep. He felt hurt and resentful and he hated it. He hated feeling like this. He hated how Harry’d forgotten him and how he didn’t bother at all to fix things. And Draco didn’t even _want_ him to bother; he wanted to be done with him. He didn’t want Harry anymore. He didn’t want to want Harry anymore.

Groaning, Draco tossed and turned.

Most of all, he hated how he still didn’t hate Harry Potter – because how was he supposed to be angry with someone he loved everything about? He missed Harry’s stupid face and his stupid smile and his stupid hair and his stupid clothes and the stupid things he said and the stupid things he did. No matter how he tried, Draco just couldn’t seem to get mad at him. He only felt pain. Pain, pain, pain, and it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He could never move on feeling like this.

It made him wonder if he was doing it all wrong. Maybe he shouldn't let Harry go at all. Maybe he just couldn’t.

But as the days progressed, Draco’s resentment only grew. Harry was messing up Draco’s happiness and he didn’t even seem to care. He didn’t even care enough to end things properly.

This alone angered Draco to his core. If that was true, Draco thought, then Potter was a careless, arrogant boy who took everyone’s attention for granted, as if it was only natural for people to love him as much as Draco did. Who knew, he thought, maybe Potter was expecting Draco to patiently wait around until the big Gryffindor celebrity got bored again. It made Draco’s blood boil.

He’d been hurting for weeks now and Potter clearly wasn’t, even though all of this was his fault: he’d stood Draco up and he’d ignored him and he’d kept spending time with those nasty friends of his instead of with Draco. And yet, somehow, Draco was the one losing sleep over it while Potter moved on without a scratch – and it was not bloody fair!

Draco didn’t like it at all, this situation he was in, and he wouldn't have been in it if it wasn’t for Potter. Without him, Draco would still believe love was nice: a boy, a girl and a baby – a happy family – and not… this torment. He was absolutely sick and tired of it. 

Anger and resentment had always been Draco’s best drivers, so he gathered he should embrace the feeling. Maybe if he got annoyed enough, it would drown out the hurt and embarrassment he felt. And maybe if he declared his hatred loud enough, everyone would forget how embarrassingly he’d swooned all over The Boy Who Lived – everyone including himself.

At least, he reckoned, it was worth a shot.

. . .

At his end of the year speech, Dumbledore told the entire school about the Dark Lord’s return, as if it was still news to anyone at this point.

‘It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies,’ he said, ‘and that any attempt to pretend that Cedric died as the result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.’

‘This speech is an insult,’ muttered Draco to Vincent and Gregory.

Stunned and frightened, every face in the Hall was turned toward Dumbledore, who continued to make one big fuss. It took quite long for him to finish talking. When he did, he turned gravely to Potter and raised his goblet.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Draco drawled when nearly everyone in the Great Hall followed suit.

They murmured Potter’s name like he was already dead, and now they drank to him. Draco and his friends snorted and rolled their eyes at each other. Like many of the other Slytherins they remained defiantly in their seats, their goblets untouched.

‘This is ridiculous.’ Draco slouched in his seat. ‘The guy was a Hufflepuff, for crying out loud. Let’s put it all in a bit of perspective, old man.’

Hearing the muffled laughter around the table following his words, Draco smirked to himself.

. . .

At the Hogwarts Express back to London, Draco decided Potter’s time was up. He’d given the guy plenty of opportunity to apologize or to break things off, and he hadn’t done either. Biting his bottom lip almost to bleeding point, Draco acted out all sorts of conversations in his head. In the end, his anger took over and he jumped up, startling Crabbe and Goyle. ‘Come on.’

They found the Golden Trio in no time at all. A hot feeling of spite boiled under Draco’s skin as he slid open the door of their compartment. The conversation inside lagged.

‘So…’ he said, advancing slightly into the compartment, a smirk quivering on his lips, and looking slowly around at the Weasel, the Mudblood and, at last, the Scarhead. ‘Potter’s Dumbledore’s favourite boy again… Trying not to think about it then? Trying to pretend it hasn’t happened?’

Potter still didn’t look at him properly. He did get up though, but only to try and push Draco out of the compartment. ‘Please, don’t,’ he whispered, avoiding Draco’s gaze altogether.

Draco wanted to scream. He pushed Harry back in his chair and when the guy actually grabbed his wand, Draco snapped. ‘You chose the losing side, Potter! I warned you! I told you, you ought to choose your company more carefully, remember? I told you not to hang around with riffraff like this!’ He jerked his head at Weasley and Granger. ‘Too late now! They’ll be the first to go, now the Dark Lord’s back! Mudbloods and Mugglelovers first… Well – second…’ He smirked. ‘Diggory was the f–’

For a split-second, it was as though someone had exploded a box of fireworks within the compartment. Then, everything went dark.

. . .

Draco woke up in an unfamiliar bed, his vision filled with white light. Blinking in the brightness, his eyes focused on the people next to him.

His mother, holding his hand. His father, pacing around the bed, circling her and Draco like a shark. He was muttering under his breath, ‘It is simply a matter of time, my heartbeat. Rest assured, I will personally make sure –’

‘Draco?’ whispered Mother. ‘Oh darling, how are you feeling? Do you have any pain?’

‘What happened?’

‘We found you and your friends unconscious on the train,’ said his mother. ‘Covered in bruises and boils.’ Her mouth pressed into a hard line, her knuckles white around her wand.

In two large steps, Father reached her to put a hand on her shoulder. He looked livid. ‘We brought you here, to St. Mungo’s. The Crabbes and the Goyles are in the rooms next door.’

‘ _Putain…’_ Draco let out a long groan. ‘Oh, I hate Hogwarts… Can’t I just get a job for the Dark Lord, so I don’t have to set foot in that rotten place ever again?’

His father smirked. ‘When you are older, Draconius. It would certainly make me the proudest father in the Wizarding World if you followed in my footsteps.’

‘Let us not get ahead of ourselves, now, Lucius,’ Mother said stiffly, squeezing Draco’s hand. ‘If you have any pain, darling, we can get you something. Anything you want.’

‘Ooh, yes, I am in agony,’ Draco moaned, adding a little theatre to the merely slight discomfort he felt. ‘Only apple pie will help, I am sure. With whipped cream and ice cream. Three scoops at least. Ooh, the pain is unbearable!’

It made his father laugh – no small feat. ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he jeered, snapping his fingers to summon a Hospital Elf.

Draco smirked. Things were looking up already.

He would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one goes out to all of you who subscribed to this story. You are the pilars of society, my friends. You rock and keep me sane. I hope I'm keeping you sane too, so we can share a lovely sort of symbiosis.  
> *Freddie Mercury voice* Keep yourself alive <3


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